


wait up, i'm coming home

by hattalove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Fluff, Kissing, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Romance, also i completely forgot liam im sorry liam, harry is allo as far as we know lol, harry lives in italy, that's louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 16:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2658164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hattalove/pseuds/hattalove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The boy beams. It’s brighter than the lights dotting the sidewalk into the distance. Louis is absolutely entranced by the stretch of his lips and the way his jaw gives way to his neck, pale skin and smooth bone. There’s something about him that reminds Louis of a sunset, a painting, a beautiful thing.</i>
</p><p>or the one where louis finds harry, then loses him, then finds him again. a flawless performance from fate featuring some penguins, some celestial bodies, and a whole lot of tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wait up, i'm coming home

**Author's Note:**

> hiiii yes so this was supposed to be ten thousand words. oops. 
> 
> **warnings** so that y'all know what you're getting into: there is romance. like a whole lot of over-the-top, schmoopy horribleness. one instance of other people talking about sex and louis shutting it down. there's also an accidental boner, but nobody gets blamed for anything and they laugh it off. that's probably it. idk. i've been writing fic about allo people for too long lol
> 
> title is from [bones](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OtTxr48YOmM) by josh record (again). shoutout to the smut-free ficathon mods, because they're awesome for running it. also a formal apology to all italians who may happen to read this. i tried.
> 
> enjoy ♥

_Do you think the universe fights  
for souls to be together?  
 Some things are too strange and strong  
to be coincidences._

\- emery allen

*

**February 8th, 2009  
Manchester, England**

Meeting Harry Styles is the strangest experience of Louis’s life. 

They’ve just managed to squeeze through the gate and out of the Apollo, back to breathing fresh air after two hours spent in a moving mass of bodies. Louis is dripping with sweat, trying to push his soaked fringe out of his eyes, and he welcomes the blissful hit of cold on his skin.

 Stan puts a heavy arm around his shoulders and pulls him to the side, out of the torrent of people that blink confusedly into the bright light of the street lamps. They scatter in all directions through the wet, sludgy snow, and to Louis they look bizarrely small, like ants.

It’s entirely possible that he’s still riding the concert high. 

“You wanna go?” Stan pulls a squished pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket, motioning towards the park across the road. Louis wordlessly shakes his head. 

Stan shrugs and leaves anyway. He sways a little as he steps off the sidewalk and into the road, a combination of the beers he’d thrown back before the show and the headiness of this entire experience. 

Louis spares a second to think of his mum back home, probably watching telly after she’s put the girls to bed, and how much he loves her for getting him the tickets. He’d never been to a real concert before, nothing this big and intoxicating, and so loud his blood is still pulsing to the drumbeat. 

The moment it happens is entirely unexpected - just like everything is with Harry, Louis is about to learn. One second, he’s closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against the wall of the Apollo, and the next, somebody’s feet are tangling in his, bringing them both down to the ground. 

“Oops,” a voice says, sounding contrite. 

Louis opens his eyes, disoriented, and his breath stutters in his chest. There is a boy on top of him, pressed in an insistent line of warmth along Louis’s front. The light of the street lamps makes his wild hair into a halo, and his eyes are a green that Louis has never seen before. 

“Hi,” is all he can manage, all the smart-arse remarks he had at the ready crumbling like a house of cards. 

“I’m _so sorry_ ,” the boy says, sitting up until he’s casually straddling Louis in the middle of the sidewalk. He _looks_ sorry; his eyes have gone big and round, innocent, like he’s a child rather than close to Louis’s age. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” 

“That’s alright,” Louis finally strings together, leaning up on his elbows. “Concert high, and all that. It’s fine.” 

The boy beams. It’s brighter than the lights dotting the sidewalk into the distance. Louis is absolutely entranced by the stretch of his lips and the way his jaw gives way to his neck, pale skin and smooth bone. There’s something about him that reminds Louis of a sunset, a painting, a beautiful thing. 

“M’ Harry,” he says, and sticks out his hand. Louis shakes it. 

“Louis. Nice to meet you.” 

Finally, they pick themselves up. Louis accepts Harry’s proffered hand and marvels at the warmth that snakes up his fingers, wraps around his wrist and all the way up his sleeve, brings the flush in his cheeks back out again. 

There’s a second of silence, a moment that Louis would normally fill with words. He takes it, instead, to get his bearings back, to squash this strange balloon of happiness inflating in his chest. 

“So, uh,” Harry says, unsure, but he’s grinning. “What a show, right?” 

It’s not often that Louis finds himself facing small talk. “Right on. I’ve never been to a proper concert before, this was amazing.” 

Harry hangs his head, hair flopping over his forehead. Louis is entranced with the tight ringlets of his curls. 

“Me either,” Harry says, and fuck if Louis remembers what came out of his own mouth ten seconds ago. “I haven’t been to a concert either, I mean. I’ve played some weddings with my band, though.” 

“Your _band_?” 

“Yup,” Harry says, and his grin seems permanent. The lights catch his face just so, and Louis realises there are dimples in his cheeks. 

Dimples, honestly. 

“We’re called White Eskimo,” Harry continues, sticking his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans. He almost seems embarrassed, except for the way he’s puffing up his chest proudly, swaying on the balls of his feet. “We won Battle of the Bands last year.” 

“Nice,” Louis says, and feels immensely self-satisfied when Harry’s grin widens. His face must be hurting by now, but he seems perfectly content to keep dimpling until Louis’s heart is doing a strange tap dance in his chest. “I used to be in a band, but I think we’ve unofficially broken up.”

“Why?” He seems so genuine about it, so _interested_. Nobody ever listen to Louis this intently. 

Louis shrugs. “We were shite.” 

Harry barks, and it takes Louis a second to realise it’s laughter. 

“We were!” he cries, indignant, like defending his own suckiness is something he’s supposed to do. “I sounded like a dying cat. We were doomed from the start.” 

“I bet that’s not true,” Harry says immediately. “You must be a great singer.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“You look it,” Harry shrugs, unbothered. Louis blinks. “I can tell these things. It’s a gift.” 

Louis opens his mouth a little, like maybe he wants to laugh or retort with something brilliantly witty, but no sound comes out. 

Out of nowhere, a dark cloud settles over Harry’s expression. He finally drops the smile and replaces it immediately with downturned lips and wrinkles in his forehead. His shoulders drop, and right in front of Louis’s eyes, he suddenly looks two years younger, like his cheeky bravado has left him. 

“Am I bothering you?” he asks, completely illogical. “I’m really sorry, I can go—“

“ _No_ ,” Louis interrupts before he’s aware he’s opened his mouth. It’s abrupt enough to stop Harry in his tracks and put a troubled crease between his eyebrows. “It’s. No. Don’t go. You’re good company.” 

Louis, apparently, has lost the entirety of his social skills in the span of five minutes. 

“Thank you,” Harry says, and he’s all smiles again. He steps closer, inclines his head just so, and bats his lashes. Suddenly, all Louis can think is _pretty_. “You’re not so bad yourself.” 

Louis chokes a little. He struggles desperately to come up with an appropriate response or a shred of his decaying dignity or _something_ , for God’s sake, but all he can do is drown in green, green eyes. There’s people milling about and horns blaring as cars try to get out of the city centre, streetlights painting mosaics on the back of Louis’s eyelids, and he stands in the middle of the sidewalk feeling like the universe is shifting, like something is slotting into place, like a supernova is expanding inside him. 

He’s just about to take a breath, to try and inflate his lungs and say something ridiculous like _never leave_ , when somebody calls Harry’s name, a shout that carries above the heads of the crowd. 

Harry turns his head, not quick enough to hide the disappointment in his eyes. “That’s my mum,” he says, and his quickened breath breaks against Louis’s face. It smells of spearmint, and it’s only now that Louis realises how close they’re standing. “I’m gonna have to go.” 

“Right,” Louis says, slow. “Right, of course. It’s late.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, well,” Louis says. “Drive safe. Assuming you’re driving home. You’re not from Manchester, are you?” 

And of course, _of course_ he’s found his tongue now, when Harry’s already leaning away and half-turned around, ready to run back to his mother. 

“I’m not, no,” Harry grins. “Quite far from here, actually.” 

“Then it’s high time you went, isn’t it,” Louis says, and promptly wants to grab himself and smack his own head against the rough plaster of the wall. He is, apparently, sending Harry away now. Louis’s brain is a traitor. 

“It is. I, uh,” and he looks to the ground, kicking a too-big shoe against the concrete. “It was nice to meet you, Louis.” 

“Likewise, Harry,” Louis smiles in what he hopes is a kind way. “Maybe I’ll see you again, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Harry smiles, but it’s sad. “Maybe.” Before he can turn around, he closes the distance between them and draws Louis into a one-armed hug. 

It’s awkward, but so, so warm. Harry smells like sweat and the venue and cologne that’s meant for grown men, curls sticking to Louis’s damp neck, and everything about it, everything, is wholly and entirely too much.

“Goodbye, Louis,” Harry mumbles, lips moving against Louis’s skin, and then he’s gone. Like an apparition, a figment of Louis’s imagination, he pulls away and disappears into the crowd. 

The world slowly trickles back in, breaking through the fog that’s settled on Louis’s brain. 

It’s cold, he notices. 

That’s how Stan finds him – leaning against the building with one shoulder, staring into the distance, shivering with his mouth half open. 

“Who was that?” he asks immediately, throwing an arm around Louis’s shoulders. He stinks, but Louis welcomes the familiarity of him, the warmth. 

“I, uh. I don’t know.” 

“What do you mean you don’t know? You two were flirting up a storm over here.” 

“We were n—“ Louis starts, but the words die halfway out of his throat. “Oh.”

He recalls Harry’s sparkling eyes, his batting eyelashes. The way his whole body curled toward Louis. “Was that what it was?” 

Stan cackles. “You were proper _flustered_ , mate. I’ve never seen you like that.” 

Louis shakes his head. He doesn’t _do_ flirting, usually – is absolutely clueless, in Stan’s own words. He finds it confusing more than anything, an elaborate dance with steps he doesn’t seem to be able to learn. 

Until today, apparently, because Louis had been flirting with this _boy_ , and he’s gone now, and. And Louis let him walk away. 

“You did get his number, right?” Stan asks, steering them down the street towards where Louis had parked. 

“No.” 

“But you gave him yours at least?” 

“No, I didn’t,” he says, still somewhat shell-shocked, as he hunts in his pockets for the keys. 

“You didn’t,” Stan repeats. “You didn’t give your number to the adorable bloke who was chatting you up.” 

“I’m such a tit,” Louis says, and finally, blessedly, the last of his confusion falls away. 

Above them, a cloud of smog is forming from all the exhaust fumes, tinted red with brake lights. The cars are rolling steadily out of the car park and down the road; one of them is probably Harry’s. 

Louis let him walk away.

“Stan, I’m _such_ a tit.” 

“It’s alright, Lou-Lou,” Stan says good-naturedly, drawing Louis into a loose hug. “You’ll know better next time.” 

_There won’t be a next time_ , Louis’s lovely, pessimistic inner voice supplies. 

As he backs out of the parking spot and manoeuvres his way to the A57, he can’t help feeling the cold creep just under his skin and settle there. The stars brighten as they leave the city lights behind, and the new galaxy in Louis’s chest dims. 

The sudden heaviness of the world weighs on him when he gets home, stares back at him in the mirror as he brushes his teeth, and stays close when he’s settled into bed. It’s the strangest sensation, Louis thinks. He can’t help feeling like he’s left something behind, something that lingers in the back of his mind, just out of reach. 

He looks to the stars for answers, and they blink back at him, silvery and nondescript. Louis is being ridiculous, he knows, and he frowns at himself through the greyness of his bedroom. He’s exhausted; maybe he’d dreamed it all up. 

Nobody’s eyes are that green, anyway.

*

**September 6th, 2009  
Bramley, England**

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ve already taken a bite out of this, I can’t exchange it.”

“But this has Gouda in it,” the man hisses, going slightly red in the face. “I’m _allergic_ to Gouda. I want one with Edam.” 

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. He wishes desperately that Zayn hadn’t fucked off for his break five minutes ago; he tends to be better at dealing with the idiots. 

“Sir,” he says, trying his hardest to not sound like he’s twenty seconds away from strangling himself with his own apron. “The ingredients are listed on the package. With all due respect, it’s not my fault that you didn’t read it.” 

He knows he’s gone too far immediately; the man bypasses fire engine red and goes straight for prune, scowling at Louis in a way he probably considers intimidating. 

“Listen to me, you little—“ 

“Is there a problem?” Zayn slinks out of the back room, stinking of cigarettes but graceful as ever. “Can I help you in any way, sir?” 

Louis watches as Zayn bats his ridiculous eyelashes, leaning forward on his elbows. 

“I, uh. I’m trying to exchange a sandwich,” the man says with much less conviction, waving the half-eaten snack in the air. There’s a slice of tomato that’s about to fall out. “And your colleague here won’t let me.” 

“I’m sorry to say he’s right, sir,” Zayn blinks again. Louis frowns at him. Of _course_ he’s right. He’s always right. “You’ve already opened the package. The only thing we can do is sell you a new one.” 

“But. Gouda.” 

Zayn leans even further forward, all but breaching the man’s personal space. “Well, you know what they say. Gouda is excellent for building muscle.” 

“It is?” he asks. Louis hides a smirk into his sleeve. 

“Yup,” Zayn says, throwing in a wink. He’s shameless. Louis loves him. “Much less fat than other cheeses, too. A fantastic choice for a good-looking gentleman like yourself.” 

“Oh,” the man says, looking down at his sandwich. “Okay.” 

And, without a word, he turns and walks away. 

Louis basks in the blissful silence for a moment, watching Zayn grimace to himself and straighten out his jumper. 

“I love you,” Louis tells him. “And Gouda is, like, half fat.” 

Zayn glares a little, but slumps into Louis’s open arms regardless. “I know that,” he grumbles. “And I hate you. How many times have I taught you how to get rid of them?” 

“But I don’t look like a Greek god,” Louis pouts, rubbing Zayn’s shoulders. “’Sides, my hair’s weird today.” 

“Your hair’s weird always,” is Zayn’s weak comeback. Louis cuddles him some more. 

The clock they’ve got ticking behind the counter says it’s half past one. There’s a blissful lull in customers, just like every Sunday afternoon, and Louis can’t wait to hand his apron over to Jade for the evening rush and go home. 

“I’m so tired,” Zayn sighs. 

“We’re off tomorrow?” Louis offers. 

“I have to go to _school_.”

“Poor thing,” Louis grimaces. The thought of school makes him break out in a cold sweat, just a little. “Good luck with that.” 

Zayn doesn’t say anything, content to wallow in his misery while Louis holds him. 

It takes another fifteen minutes of Louis staring at an episode of The Simpsons playing on the muted TV before another customer shows up. Louis looks outside when one of the petrol tanks clicks, and is instantly suspicious – there, idling on the concrete while a tall man pumps in petrol, is a rental car. The plate starts with an L. 

“Z,” Louis says, nudging Zayn with his shoulder. “There’s a rental outside.” 

“And?” 

“It’s from London, I think.”

Finally, Zayn raises his head and peers outside, squinting. “Huh. A bit far from home, innit?” 

Louis continues watching as a woman in the front seat turns towards the back, talking to someone, while the man outside hangs the pump back up and heads towards the entrance.

“Alright,” Louis straightens up. “Alright. Customers. Gotta look professional.”

Zayn snorts a little louder than necessary, peels himself away from Louis’s side and goes over to the pyramid of energy drinks they’ve constructed out of sheer boredom, straightening the can on top. 

By the time Louis makes sure his apron is on straight and his name tag is visible, as per Simon’s instructions, there’s people in the shop. He hears them before he sees them. 

“That’s so not true, Hazhead. Nobody does that anymore,” a girl is saying, indignant. “They’re not going to cover us in tar and feathers.” 

“They so are,” another voice responds, and something in Louis’s stomach jerks violently. “They’re gonna pull you out of bed in the middle of the night, barefoot, _in your pyjamas_ , and the whole school will be there to laugh at you.” 

And. Wait. Hold the fuck up.

“Mum,” the girl complains, but Louis tones her out as he raises his head, looking at the new people in the room. He’d recognise that voice anywhere, he _knows_ it—

And sure enough, there he is. There he is. Even in daylight, he still looks like the stuff of dreams, a halo of curls around his head and eyes an electric green even from afar. He’s wearing trackies and a comfortable-looking jumper, walking around the petrol station in just his socks, and he’s the most incredible thing Louis has ever seen. 

It’s a little like a storm cloud flew in and broke over Louis’s head, drenching him in freezing cold water, the way all his nerve endings seem to flare to life. That feeling he’s almost forgotten, the tingling in his fingertips that makes him feel like he could do anything, slowly trickles back in. 

Just like last time, it becomes inordinately difficult to make a sound. Louis settles behind the counter instead and tries to pretend he’s not watching – which he doesn’t do a very good job of, if Zayn’s raised eyebrows are any indication. 

Harry moves like a sprite. He fidgets in place and jumps between aisles, knocking into things and righting them before his family notices. He seems so young, so full of energy, a ball of light that Louis can’t help but be drawn to. 

Slowly but surely, he approaches the cash register, looking over the vast array of sweets they’ve got arranged in the front with big eyes. Louis counts the ringlets on the top of his head. 

“Mate,” Zayn hisses, nudging Louis under the ribs. “What the fuck?” 

Louis waves his hand, a signal for ‘I’ll explain later’. He will, provided he survives meeting Harry for the second time. 

He doesn’t have time to deliberate just then, because Harry is inclining his head, not quite looking up. “Excuse me,” he says, voice deep now that he doesn’t have to shout to be heard over the din of people. “D’you have any Magic Stars?” 

Zayn moves away to pretend he’s manning the deli counter, and here Louis is, fiddling with the till, holding what’s probably his last chance in his hands. 

Deep breath. This boy is practically a stranger; Louis is usually the one to chatter away until he makes strangers uncomfortable. There’s no reason for this to be any different, except maybe the erratic _thump-thump-thump_ of his heart.

“Uh, sure,” he says, watching Harry’s hand still in the basket of chocolate bars. “They’re right down here.” 

And he can’t help the smile that stretches his lips before Harry ever reacts; can’t help the bubble of happiness that tickles his throat again, because somehow, even though he’s shaking, he knows everything is going to turn out okay. 

When Harry raises his head, it’s with a grin to match Louis’s own. His face looks a little different, a little more angular, like the months have chipped away at the soft lines of his face. 

“Louis,” he says, breathless. “What are you doing here?” 

Louis leans as close as he can, shoving aside packs of discount chewing gum and Zayn’s half-eaten apple, and taps his name tag. 

“I work here,” he smiles. 

“Right,” Harry says, looking him up and down. Louis finds it makes him feel strange. “Nice apron.” 

“Meh,” he picks at the fraying black fabric. “Colour’s boring.” 

Harry throws his head back and _laughs_ , just as unrestrained as Louis remembers, loud against the polished surfaces of the shop. “I don’t think it is. Suits you.” 

“Thanks, then,” Louis allows, feeling this ridiculous warmth in his cheeks. “What brings you by? Roadtrip?” 

“Something like that,” Harry smiles, bending down to get his Magic Stars. “My sister’s going off to uni for the first time. Mum insisted we all go with her, you know how parents are.” 

Louis grins. “I know. Where’s she going?” 

“Sheffield. Kind of boring, if you ask me. I’d have gone for someplace cool, like London.”

“London’s full of hipsters,” Louis says conspiratorially. “And I’ve heard Sheffield’s really good. She’ll be close to me as well, which is always a bonus.” 

Harry laughs again, burying his chin in his armful of snacks. He looks so _happy_ to just stand here and chat to Louis like they’re old friends. 

“It’s good to see you,” Louis blurts out suddenly, without his brain giving permission. He hears Zayn choke on his gum somewhere behind him. Louis is always forward, but never quite like this. 

He thinks Harry might blush under his gorgeous dark tan, just a little. “It’s good to see you too. I didn’t think I would, after, you know.” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, drawing invisible patterns on the counter. “I felt like such an idiot, I didn’t even ask for your last name.” 

“It’s Styles,” he beams. “Harry Styles. And I didn’t ask for yours, either, so it’s on both of us.” 

Louis extends a hand. “Louis Tomlinson. It’s a pleasure, Harry Styles.”

“A pleasure,” Harry repeats. He takes Louis’s hand, just this side of gentle, and shakes it. His palm is dry and warm and nice. Louis could get used to the feeling. “Would you mind giving me your number?” 

Louis chokes on something that’s half laugh, half desperate noise of, well, desperation. Are they flirting again? Should he ask Zayn and make a checklist to follow during any potential future conversations with Harry? 

Anyway. Deep breath. Harry _Styles_ just asked for Louis’s number, presumably to have some more pleasant conversation. Louis can _so_ do that.

In the three seconds it takes Louis to work through his confusion, Harry’s got that look on his face again, like his ostentatious bravado has dissolved into dust, like he’s not sure if he’s crossed some sort of boundary. He shouldn’t look like that, Louis thinks, especially not around Louis himself.

“Course I wouldn’t mind,” he says quickly. “Gimme your phone.” 

Harry smiles and digs in his pockets, then pulls out a touchscreen that’s probably seen better days. It lights up just as their fingers touch, and slides into Louis's palm heavy and warm with Harry’s body heat.

The wallpaper is a picture of Harry and what Louis can now tell is his sister, making silly faces at the camera. It makes Louis smile. 

He types his number in quickly and deliberates over the contact name. Should he go for simple? Obnoxious? Lots of emojis? 

Harry is waiting patiently on the other side of the counter, rocking on his heels. Louis gives up and simply taps on the _L_.

“Here you go,” he grins, handing the phone back to Harry. “Want mine?” 

Harry goes through the same song and dance, snickering at Louis’s wallpaper of himself under a massive pile that’s his sisters. Louis watches him carefully pick at the keys and feels something settle in his stomach, warm and heavy and pleasant, with every new digit. 

“All done,” Harry puts the phone on the counter. He’s grinning widely, all dimples. “Can I put these down here, by the way? I think they’re starting to melt,” he inclines his head to indicate his sweets. 

Louis helps him set it all down, accidentally tangling fingers over Mars bars and salt and vinegar crisps. 

Once they’re done, Harry starts up small talk again – or at least that’s what Louis thinks is happening. Who knows, these days.

“How old are you, by the way?” is his first question. “Gemma said the only people who talk to sixteen-year-olds at concerts are middle-aged creeps.” 

Louis laughs. “I’m almost eighteen. Not middle-aged, definitely a creep, though.” 

Harry punches him in the arm. It’s the softest touch, muffled by Louis’s jumper, but it still leaves a mark on his skin. Also, Harry is sixteen. Louis isn’t sure if that’s what he expected. Harry is, somehow, full of contradictions – he’s soft and fresh-faced, just like a sixteen-year-old should, but the way he carries himself, the way he leans into Louis’s space easy as breathing, speaks of a confidence that shouldn’t come so naturally to someone so young.

As he tries to blend into the counter and get closer to Harry’s pleasant body warmth, he catches sight of their car, still parked by the pump outside. 

“Hey, where do you live?” Harry looks at him a little startled. “You just mentioned—back at the concert. You said you live pretty far from Manchester.” 

“Yeah,” he says, and suddenly stares down at his shoeless feet. “Yeah, um. We live in Rome.” 

“Like the capital of Italy Rome?” 

“Yup,” Harry laughs, but it’s not a boom this time; it’s barely a ripple in the air. “We moved a few years ago for Robin’s work.” 

“Wow,” Louis says, imagines a faraway land full of pizza and tan people and sea salt sticking to skin. He’s only ever been to France. “Do you speak Italian, then?” 

“A bit,” Harry nods, and some of the liveliness comes back. “I go to an Italian school, so I sort of…need to.” 

“That’s really cool.” 

“It’s just everyday life,” Harry shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, Italy’s amazing, but I like it better over here.” 

“ _Really_?” Louis makes a face. “But it’s always raining!” 

Harry shrugs. “I like the rain. It’s soothing.” 

Louis smiles despite himself, shakes his head. “You’re strange, Harry Styles.” 

And it’s somehow absolutely logical when Harry beams and says, genuine as ever: “Thank you.” 

Eventually, Harry’s family all gathers at the counter with their purchases. Among other things, Louis counts four bottles of Gatorade and three bags of fun size Snickers. 

“Who’s this, then?” Harry’s sister butts in as soon as she hears them talking. Louis stifles a giggle when Harry rolls his eyes. 

“This is Louis,” he says, long-suffering. “From the concert. I told you about him, remember?” 

“Oh, I definitely remember,” she grins. “ _This_ is Louis?” 

“Um,” Louis says. “Nice to meet you?” 

“You too. I’m Gemma,” she reaches out and shakes his hand. She’s got a very specific kind of grin on her face; Louis is not quite sure what it’s supposed to convey. “I’ve heard _lots_ about you.” 

Harry slaps both of his hands over his face. “Please stop embarrassing me.” 

“Never,” she puts a hand over her heart. 

Harry’s mum and stepdad catch up then, and Louis has to float down from his cloud and be an actual employee. He rings up their petrol and their food, trying not to listen in to their pleasant chatter. 

They seem like very nice people, he thinks. It’s not difficult to see where Harry gets his charm. 

“That’ll be fifty pounds fifteen total,” Louis tells them, trying not to feel miserable as he opens the register. Harry might be leaving soon – for _Italy_ – but Louis has got his number. That definitely counts for something. 

He thanks them all with a smile, throwing in a bag for all their purchases, and watches them turn their backs and walk away, laughing. Harry is the only one who lingers. 

“So,” he says, fidgeting with his jumper, but he’s smiling. “I’ve got to go again.” 

“Seems like you do,” Louis nods. “I’m really glad you happened to stop by.” 

“Me too.” 

And fuck it, Louis thinks. He might not see Harry for years on end. He might not see Harry _ever_. 

He climbs over the counter, landing right in front of Harry and his adorably confused expression, and gives him a hug. 

“Oh,” Harry squeaks, laughing. He’s got a car smell lingering about him, and he’s soft everywhere he touches Louis. His arms close tight over Louis’s back. 

“Bye,” Louis mumbles, feeling bizarrely like he might cry. 

“Bye, Louis,” Harry mumbles back, and then he’s pulling away. He takes a step back, then another, then raises his hand to give Louis a feeble wave, and disappears outside on his socked feet. 

Louis can’t resist coming up to the shop window and watching him go. Even after he slides into the car and the tinted glass hides all signs of his presence, Louis knows he’s there, can feel it in every molecule of himself. 

The engine roars to life and the rental rolls away. Louis stares at the empty spot it’s left, his mind spinning with thoughts he can’t quite pin down. 

“That was proper weird,” says Zayn, breaking Louis’s reverie. He’s got his head cocked to the side like a dog, obviously curious, but his expression is gentle. “Was that actually _the_ Harry?” 

“There is no _the_ Harry,” Louis grumbles. “But yes, that was him.” 

“And he lives in Italy?” 

Louis shoves him off the counter he’s sitting on. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to eavesdrop?” 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “No, Louis. Listen. The bloke lives in Italy, and he just happened to come to this petrol station. That’s proper, like, fate stuff.” 

“Oh my God,” Louis groans. “Please shut up.” If Zayn asks about the flush in his cheeks or the way his heart misses a beat at the word _fate_ , he’ll deny, deny, deny.

There are no customers for the next half hour, and Louis has time to sit in the closed restaurant wing and ponder. It only just occurs to him how weird all of their conversation was, but Harry had gone along with it – had gone along like he feels it, too. Like this thing, this star-charged electricity between them, isn’t just a product of Louis’s imagination. 

He takes his phone out, moving through the contacts until he finds the newest one. 

Harry Styles, it says. Harry Styles, who has one sister and a mum and a stepdad and a cat, apparently; whose voice flows easy and deep like a river, who makes Louis feel awkward in the best of ways. 

Harry Styles, who lives in Rome. 

Louis sighs, pockets his phone, and goes about the rest of his workday.

*

A new text buzzes just as he’s setting his plate down on the table, ready to eat dinner with his family. All of his sisters perk up, interested, and Louis barely manages to snatch it before one of them catapults herself across the tabletop to get to it first.

 _Hiiiiii,_ the screen says, _we didn’t exactly discuss this but it’s like okay to text you, right?_

Louis grins around his fork. _I dont give my number to just anyone,_ he sends out, without thinking. Then, just in case he came on too strong – _course its okay_.

There’s something deliriously wonderful about the _Harry Styles_ displayed at the top of the screen in bold letters. Louis has a link now. He can turn the tingling in his fingertips into words, words that will actually get to Harry instead of bouncing around the inside of Louis’s head. 

_Gooood_ , is Harry’s next text. _So what are you up to?_

 _Eating dinner_ , Louis writes. He’s almost ninety-nine percent sure this isn’t flirting, just a chat. Nice and casual, like pals. Louis thinks that could be what they are now – they do have a couple of hugs under their belts, after all. 

_Ugh I want dinner too!!_

_Did u not have any?_ Louis frowns at his phone as he types. 

_Too many snacks mum says I’ll get to eat on the plane :((_

The plane. Oh, Louis thinks. _Leaving already?_

_Yup. Have to go to school and stuff_

_But ur schools in italy!! how wicked is that_

“Louis,” mum reprimands him once he’s stopped putting food in his mouth and instead busied both of his hands with typing. 

He feels chastised immediately, setting the phone down next to his plate with reluctance. “Sorry, Mum,” he says, and breathes deep in relief when she smiles back at him.

It’s been difficult, these past few months. Mum’s been looking tired and pale, and Louis has been trying to help out as much as he can. It’s not easy, not when the girls bombard him with “When’s Daddy coming home?” constantly, but he has to take it; it’s his responsibility as much as anyone’s, to take care of them. The least he can do is be present at dinner, and try to stop Daisy and Phoebe from throwing their peas all over the kitchen. 

His phone vibrates again, but he resists it. Mum asks him something about work, wants to know how Zayn’s doing, and it’s easy enough to get through the meal without buzzing out of his skin. 

It’s when all the plates have been licked clean and put away in the sink that he excuses himself and hides out in the bathroom. It’s a little too teen drama, perhaps, but Louis cherishes the quiet. 

There are two messages waiting for him, both carrying Harry’s name on top.

 _It’s not as wicked when you actually live here,_ the first one says. _you should come visit if you like it so much_

The second one was sent just a couple minutes ago: _anyway have to get on the plane now talk to you later?_

Louis wants to respond; wants to leave a text for Harry to find when he touches down more than a thousand miles away, something that would maybe make him smile. He deliberates with his fingers over the keys, but in the end, he leaves it be. 

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, to the screen of his phone. “Talk to you later.” 

He doesn’t really let go of his phone for the rest of the day – he leaves it on the basin while he’s in the shower, carries it upstairs in his teeth while his hands are occupied with his evening cup of tea, and shoves it under his pillow once he gets into bed, pressing against his temple and within reach. 

It’s a little ridiculous, he knows. The phone is not an extension of Harry – it’s just that Louis can’t help feeling that way. 

He falls asleep to an image of narrow cobbled streets, a warmth like the sun bearing down on his skin, and Harry’s voice laughing in his ear: _you should come visit_. 

In the morning, he wakes up to a text that only says _:)_ , and a picture of the Colosseum. Harry’s hair is poking into the corner of the photo, just a couple of ringlets shining in the sun. 

Louis feels warm.

*

**December 22nd, 2007  
 Doncaster, England**

Louis has decided that his mates are weird. He doesn’t know how it’s happened – has always thought that his taste in friends is quite flawless. There is, however, no other explanation for why he’s sitting in Stan’s living room looking at— _that_.

“Seriously, lads,” Louis says, for what has to be the seventeenth time in the last hour. “This is fucking _weird_.” 

“No it’s not, shut up,” Zayn tells him, eyes twice their normal size as he stares at the telly. “Everyone does this.” 

Louis huffs and picks at a scab on his knee. He’d spent the morning playing footie in the yard, slipping all over the place, the grass covered in what could pass as snow if Louis squinted very hard. Stan called him just as it was getting too cold to be out, and now he’s here, with a beer that they stole from Stan’s dad’s stash, warm and gross now from how tight he’s holding on to the bottle. The room’s too hot for his taste, full of weirdly heavy breathing and things that Louis just _doesn’t understand_.

“You do remember we were going to watch a film, right?” 

Stan rolls his eyes. Louis is immediately offended. “This is better, Lou, come on.” 

“It’s not! What’s so great about watching a bird take her clothes off?” 

Finally, Zayn tears away from the screen and looks at Louis, incredulous. “She’s got _tits_ ,” he says, like that’s supposed to explain everything.

“So?” Louis shrugs. 

And now they’re both staring at him. How great. 

“Are you a poof, or summat?” Stan asks.

“I don’t like that word,” Louis snaps, taking a swig of his beer ever though it just tastes like bitter tap water now. “And why the fuck would I be?” 

Zayn fishmouths, waving both his arms at the TV. Louis doesn’t think he's ever seen him like this. “ _Tits_!” 

“I don’t care about her tits, Zayn, Jesus Christ,” Louis says, peering at the screen. The woman’s down to a pair of lace knickers and fishnets stockings. They look really cheap, like the kind that lads at school like to bring in and pretend they got from their imaginary twenty-year old girlfriends. They probably chafe, too. 

“Exactly,” Stan states. “You don’t care about tits. Means you’re into dick.” 

Louis swallows something bitter in the back of his throat. “I don’t care about dick, either. Except my own, since it’s, you know, attached to me.” 

“If you cared about your dick, you’d want to stick it in something,” Zayn says, like he’s imparting a piece of age-old wisdom. 

“You’re gross,” Louis tells him. He’s a little surprised at how cold he sounds – there are feelings bubbling just under the surface of his skin, suddenly; things he’s been wanting to give voice to for years, but always kept at the back of his mind. 

“You’re weird, Louis, seriously. You’re about to turn sixteen, it’s high time you shagged somebody. You can’t _not care_.” 

“Well I don’t. I’ve told you this before, I don’t give a fuck if Sandy McDonell is giving me _the eyes_. I. Don’t. Care.” 

“She’s the fittest bird in school,” Stan squeaks like he’s in pain. “I overheard her telling her friend that she wanted to blow you in the loo the other day, but you just brushed her off!” 

Louis frowns. “I don’t remember that.” 

“I was with you,” Zayn says, matching Louis’s frown. “Last week at lunch? She came over and sat in your bloody lap, mate, she wanted it _bad_.” 

“Oh,” Louis says, and sets his bottle on the table. He feels sick. “Was that what she was doing?” 

They blink at him. Louis’s cheeks burn, suddenly, and he averts his gaze. The TV lady is still turning around and flipping her hair so hard it has to make her dizzy, making noises against the fingers she’s stuck in her mouth. 

“Maybe you’re broken,” Stan says, casual, like he’s not spilling crushed glass straight into Louis’s lungs, making it hard to breathe. 

“ _What the fuck_ , Stan,” he says, a feeble attempt at defending himself. He may be fifteen, but he still bloody well has feelings, though right now, he’s not sure he wants them much. 

Maybe he _is_ broken. There’s a tiny voice in the back of his mind that’s never been there before, whispering it until it drowns out all the other sounds in the room. Louis has never thought of himself that way. He’d never really thought he was that different, just that everyone around him was exaggerating, somehow. 

“I’m not broken,” he says when silence settles around them, and he hates how small he sounds. 

“Well you’re not bloody normal,” Stan huffs, like Louis’s existence offends him somehow. He crosses his arms across his chest, turns to the telly, and doesn’t turn back. 

Louis tries desperately to swallow the lump in his throat. He looks at Zayn, asking for something, anything, but Zayn mostly looks closed-off and confused.

“I’m going home,” he says, and receives no response. _Fine_ , he thinks. 

He kicks the table on purpose as he makes his way to the stairs, sending beer bottles rolling, spilling over Stan’s mum’s precious white carpet. He hears Stan yelling something behind him, knows it will get him into massive trouble, but he’s too numb to bring himself to care. 

He walks home through a new layer of powdery snow, leaving shallow footprints behind. It’s still falling in soft little clusters, catching in Louis’s hair and sliding off the tip of his nose. 

It’s a Friday night, and the usual evening quiet of Doncaster is broken in every park and alleyway Louis passes, people his age laughing and smoking and clinking bottles. He watches them all from the spotlight of the street lamps as he walks by, wondering if any of them have ever felt the way he does. If anybody ever has. 

So he’s dramatic about it. He’s fifteen, sue him.

It only occurs to him once he’s back home and making a cuppa - that this might be something that won’t go away. Maybe he’ll never find anybody fit. Maybe he’ll never want to shag anyone and everyone he tells will throw the word _broken_ in his face. Maybe he’ll never fall in love. Maybe he will, and they’ll leave him because he’s _weird_.

He sneaks to their old dinosaur of a computer, navigating the creaky living room floor on tiptoes. The screen blinks to life tinted yellow, whiting out around the crack in the corner from way back when Daisy got a little too enthusiastic with Louis’s football. 

Louis opens Google and stares at the letters. He’s so close his breath fogs up the screen. 

Finally, he puts his fingers on the keys. _I think tits are boring_ , he writes first, then immediately hits backspace and reminds himself to erase the browser history. 

_I don’t want sex_ throws up a few links to women’s online magazines. Louis clicks on one, reads it, and concludes that he’s not in menopause. 

_I don’t want sex with anyone_ , he corrects. He watches a bright blue array of links show up, one after another. At the top of the page is one that says _AVEN_. 

Louis clicks on it, entranced, and watches a white and purple site flicker to life on the computer screen.

*

**October 3rd, 2009  
Doncaster, England**

“Stop freaking out,” Zayn says for the fifth time. For the fifth time, Louis glares at him.   “I didn’t call you over here for this. If you’re not going to help me, then just bugger off.” 

Zayn sighs, pulls out his chair, and sits back down. He reaches across the tabletop to lay his hands across Louis’s, effectively stopping their nervous little dance. “You never told me what you wanted help with, Lou,” he says, with the air of a man who’s been waiting for a lifetime.

“Did so!” Louis protests, freeing his hands to wrap them around his cup instead. The tea’s been cold for a good twenty minutes, but just looking into the dark brown depths of it calms Louis down. 

“I walked in the door, asked you what was wrong, and you wailed _Harry_. “ 

Louis pouts. “Harry’s a problem. I need help with Harry.” 

“What’s he done this time?” 

“Nothing!” Louis is quick to defend, putting his foot in his mouth in the most graceless way possible. He glances at his phone, silent since that morning. It’s Louis’s fault – he’s the one who hasn’t written back yet, because he’s _scared_. “He wants to Skype.” 

“Ok _ay_?” Zayn drags out, frowning. “Do you not want to?” 

“Of course I do, don’t be ridiculous,” Louis scoffs. He totally does. So much so that he hasn’t really been able to think about anything else in the last five hours. 

Zayn looks nonplussed, leaning his forehead against a closed fist like he’s seconds away from punching Louis in the face. Louis doesn’t really mind; he’d quite like to punch himself too, if he’s honest. 

“Louis,” Zayn says, and it sounds like the beginning of one of his Very Deep Lectures About Life. “Get yourself together. You weren’t this nervous before your A levels. He’s just a boy.” 

Harry’s definitely not just a boy. Harry is a mystery wrapped inside an enigma wrapped inside too-big hoodies and fluffy knit jumpers. He works in a bakery, his favourite colour is blue, and he sends Louis pictures of random touristy stuff from all over Rome. He’s also extraordinarily good at texting, Louis has found, and always replies within an hour. 

Harry should get an award for how not-just-a-boy-like he is, honestly. 

“I don’t want to make a tit of myself,” he admits in the end, quietly. 

“You _always_ make a tit of yourself,” Zayn says, incredulous. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you not be obnoxious.” 

Louis kicks him. “Prick,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it. 

“You know what I’m trying to say though, right? Being stupid is, like, your mating ritual, why is Harry different?” 

“I don’t know,” Louis says. The surface of his tea reflects his own scowl back at him. “He just is. He likes me even when I’m not being stupid.” 

“Lou,” Zayn says, and something in his tone makes Louis look up at him. “You’re gonna be fine, alright?”

Sometimes, Louis hates Zayn a lot. He’s younger, but knows more about how to function like a somewhat normal human being than Louis does; it’s unfair. Somebody should take some of that and implant in it Louis’s brain. 

“I guess, yeah,” he says. “We’re just gonna have a nice chat, nothing too serious. I can do that.” 

“Good,” Zayn stands up and leans over the table to pat Louis on the shoulder. “I’m leaving now, I don’t want to see your lovestruck puppy face.” 

He’s out of the door before Louis can retort, but it’s probably just as well – a sudden horde of butterflies comes to life in Louis’s stomach and makes its way up his throat, rendering him jittery, restless, and suddenly he can’t wait another minute. He picks up his phone and types out a text – _yeah, sure, sounds good_ , trying his hardest to pretend he hasn’t been silent for five hours. 

Harry replies within seconds, and Louis can’t suppress an image of him sitting somewhere and staring at his phone. _Awesome is now a good time??_

Louis moves to the living room to get the computer running, waiting for Skype to open. They exchanged contacts at some point between Louis admitting he’d done musicals in school and loved them, and Harry confessing to owning a secret stash of Mary Berry books. 

Harry’s name already has the little green bubble floating next to it. Louis has absolutely zero time to prepare before the ringtone starts up, Harry’s grinning face blinking on the screen. 

Breath in and breath out, Louis clicks on accept and tries to right the webcam with his other hand.

“Louis!” Harry’s voice comes, tinny and compressed in the speakers but still so deep, so lovely, before either of their video feeds come on. 

“Hi,” Louis grins, and tries to hold on to the oxygen in his lungs when Harry finally comes alive on the screen. 

It’s been less than a month since Louis has seen him last, but impossibly, he looks more grown up again - more angular, more handsome, _more_. His hair has gotten longer, curls licking lazily at his face, and Louis honestly wants to just sit down and stare. 

“Hi,” Harry breathes, leaning so close only half his face is in view, and Louis settles deeper into the chair. 

It’s just conversation. Harry is lovely and funny and quick-witted, when he wants, and Louis could talk to him – does talk to him – for hours on end. 

He can do this.

*

It’s past midnight when Louis gets to bed. There’s a text waiting on his phone, sent fifteen minutes ago:

_Goodnight Lou, thanks for today .xxx_

Those are kisses. Harry signed the message with kisses. 

Louis falls into bed, covers his head with a pillow, and tries to stave off the inevitable crisis.

*

**December 1st, 2009  
Luton Airport, London, England**

This is torture, Louis thinks, wishing more than ever that he had somebody with him to complain to. 

The arrivals hall is bustling around him, shouts in lively foreign languages carrying over the din of people. Louis has his eyes glued to the info board, watching the next flight from Rome arrive two minutes early, touch down and proceed to baggage claim. The clock says 11:25, and Louis’s stomach is coiled tight with nerves. 

He’s hidden behind a pair of chauffeurs, both holding up signs and chatting about something Louis couldn’t pay attention to if he tried. He’s peeking at the sliding doors from between their shoulders, hiding every time he sees somebody vaguely curly and beanpole-like, heard thudding in his throat. 

He’s not entirely sure why he’s hiding, actually, but it seems like the logical thing to do. He doesn’t think about it much, and instead busies himself with watching planes roll across the tarmac while he waits. 

Finally, at 12:06, the doors open to let out a steady stream of passengers straight from Italy. Louis watches students with backpacks and rumpled businessmen with briefcases walk out one after another, barely blinking lest he miss somebody important. 

He’s the last to come out, looking small in the enormous room full of people. The air around them changes consistency immediately, turning to molasses in Louis’s lungs as he, for a split second, deliberates what to do. It’s not quite a conscious decision to start moving, but his legs refuse to stop as they carry him closer, right into Harry’s view. 

As soon as he spots Louis, his face splits into a beaming smile, breaking through the overcast morning like sun through the clouds. 

“Lou!” he shouts, like there’s a chance Louis could have not seen him, just shy of running straight into his arms as he is. 

“Hey,” he says when he’s two feet away, not giving Harry a chance to say anything back as he crashes into him and hugs him as tight as he can. 

Harry laughs right into his ear, ringing bells and fluffy curls, and lets go of his suitcase to wrap his arms around Louis’s neck. He feels unmistakably real in Louis’s arms. 

“You’re here,” he can’t help mumbling, about to let go, but Harry doesn’t let him. He presses tighter to Louis’s front, the soft fabric of his jumper brushing Louis’s bare arms. 

“I’m here,” he replies. “And without my parents. Wow.” 

Louis chuckles into his hair, giving in and wrapping around Harry the way he would around Zayn or Stan or one of his sisters. Finally, blessedly, none of it feels strange – not the silhouette of Harry in his arms, not his smell, not the way he whispers something into Louis’s collarbone and drools on his shirt just a bit. Instead, there’s a burn in Louis’s blood, a hot feeling in his veins that sings with familiarity, with how well Harry fits to Louis and Louis fits to him. 

Louis knows Harry now. He knows him, and he’s not letting him go. 

“They’re gonna think I’ve left my case unattended,” Harry says finally and pulls away. He doesn’t go far – just enough that Louis can count his eyelashes and the specks of blue in his eyes. “Wouldn’t want that. I brought presents.” 

Louis beams. “For me?” 

“Maybe,” Harry smiles at him. It’s content, somehow, not quite like the smile he wore when Louis first met him, or the one he had when they met for the second time. 

It only strikes Louis now, really, that this is their third time meeting in person. It feels like Harry’s been in his thoughts, in his heart, forever.

“Shall we go, then?” he asks, staying close as he offers up his elbow. Harry takes it happily, hoisting his carry-on higher on his shoulder and grabbing the handle of his suitcase. 

“Lead the way.” 

Outside, some of the clouds have broken up to let a toothy winter sun shine through. Louis shivers in his short sleeves, but refuses to show it.

They get a cab to the hostel, a small hole-in-the-wall place where Louis had managed to score them their very own bathroom. Harry stays stuck to the window the entire time, peering into cars that pass them and up at the tall buildings of the city centre like he hasn’t been here dozens of times. Louis understands – London is bleak this time of year, grey and slippery and cold, but there’s something about it that never loses its magic. 

“Look, it’s the Eye!” Harry whispers, face near split in two in a giant grin.

 “I know!” Louis whispers back, leaning into Harry’s space and looking out of his window from where they’re stuck in traffic. Their body warmth collides, and Louis wants to take Harry’s hand, just a little.

Finally, once the car spits them out right into a puddle and Louis beats Harry to paying the fare, they trudge up the stairs and into the warmth of the room. It’s quite blank except for the pile of clothes at the foot of Louis’s bed, but it’s all theirs for the next four days. 

“ _Aah_ ,” Harry lets out as he spreads out on the free bed and kicks off his shoes. He looks like a gangly starfish, but he’s right here and with Louis and absolutely wonderful. “What shall we do today, then?” 

“Dunno,” Louis shrugs, sitting down next to him. The mattress dips and he slides closer to Harry’s side, an invisible pull that Louis doesn’t mind at all. “I didn’t really think about much for today, to be honest. Thought you might be tired from the flight or summat.” 

“That’s so sweet,” Harry grins up at him. “I am quite tired, actually. We should go get dinner, then come back here and watch as many romantic comedies as we can take.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Louis grins. 

They end up tangled on Louis’s bed, five bags of Nando’s in varying states of emptiness all around them, watching Meryl Streep murder people with her eyes in Devil Wears Prada. Louis has his mum’s voice in his ear – _don’t waste a second, Boo, no lying about, do proper tourist things_ – but Harry’s quiet giggles drown it out.

*

**December 3rd, 2009  
Regent’s Park, London, England**

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” 

“You’re harshing my vibe,” Harry says, donning the worst American accent Louis has ever heard. “I’ve wanted to come here for _ages_.” 

“I feel like that could’ve waited until you’re here in the summer, though,” Louis mumbles into his plastic cup of tea. 

“No time like the present, Lou. Come on.” 

Harry wraps his arm around Louis’s shoulders, warm and heavy. The sludge on the sidewalk shifts under their feet as they walk to the register. Due to Louis’s hands being very busy cradling his tea, Harry gets to his wallet first and gets their tickets. Louis makes a mental note to pay next time. 

As he counts Harry’s change, even the spotty bloke behind the register looks at them like they’ve gone mad – and the thing is, this _should_ feel like madness. It’s December and Louis’s bollocks are about to freeze off, and yet here he is. He’s about to enter the London Zoo with this ridiculous boy who’s somehow found his way into Louis’s heart. Harry looks so excited, has been so excited ever since they sat down in a McDonald’s for breakfast and settled their plans for the day. Louis cannot bring himself to be anything but fond. 

The zoo is, as expected, deserted. This seems to excite Harry further, as he proceeds to skip down the path towards the big cats, not a care in the world. Louis throws away his empty cup, pulls his beanie lower over his freezing ears, and follows. 

Two hours later, Harry is dejectedly sitting on a bench, sipping on a hot chocolate they’ve managed to procure from the single open gift shop. Louis, for his part, is being more obnoxious than usual in hopes of cheering him up. 

“You’re making the fish sad, Haz,” he’s saying as he makes an exaggerated pouty face. “They were so excited when we went to see them in the aquarium! So in awe they couldn’t even make a sound.” 

Finally, Harry cracks. He snorts into his drink, splashing some onto the sidewalk, and then dissolves into giggles.

 “You’re ridiculous,” he announces. “And I’m still sad. I understand why the cats are gone, but why the penguins? Don’t they live in the Arctic?"

“Antarctic, I think,” Louis says. “Maybe they’re the South American kind?” 

Harry grumbles. Louis is torn between cooing at how adorable he is and patting his hair in consolation. 

“Tell you what,” Louis claps his hands, getting to his feet. “Let’s go see the butterflies. Butterflies make everyone happy.” 

He extends a hand automatically, used to keeping the twins in check when he takes them places. He doesn’t expect Harry to look up with reluctance, throw away his cup and actually take said hand. 

So that’s new. They’re walking down the path, passing the empty amphitheatre and the empty monkey exhibits, and Harry’s hand is nestled in Louis’s like it belongs there. Harry appears to have no problem with this, smiling again as the ridiculous inflatable caterpillar appears in the distance. 

The thing is, Louis actually kind of hates butterflies. They might be pretty, sure, but up close, they’re really just spiders with wings. 

The butterfly tent is ridiculously hot inside, kept at tropical temperatures to keep the butterflies happy, and the air is like a physical hit to Louis’s cold-bitten cheeks. He tugs off his beanie and unbuttons his coat immediately, feeling the warmth saturate his bones.

“Wow,” Harry breathes out in awe. His face has gone slack, mouth open on an exhale, and Louis can’t help but admire how genuine Harry is about everything – how he lets go and shows what he’s feeling right there on his face. 

It is quite beautiful inside, Louis must admit. There are trees with odd-shaped leaves reaching for the semi-transparent ceiling, and the only sound that echoes around them is the beating of a thousand pairs of wings. 

Harry takes Louis’s hand again, grinning and shiny with sweat, treading the narrow path and stopping every few steps to point out a butterfly hiding in the foliage. Louis mostly admires him from afar, feeling like he’s seconds away from actually swooning. It’s got to be the temperature making him light-headed, he’s sure. 

“Ew,” he comments when he comes face to face with a butterfly the size of a plate, brown and gold and just a bit too fucking huge for Louis’s liking. 

Harry turns to him, eyes shining. “That’s an atlas moth,” he whispers, like he doesn’t want to disturb it.

“How do you even know that?” Louis whispers back. 

Harry shrugs, and extends a hand. Before Louis can tell him it’s a bad idea, he’s touching the moth’s hairy little body and petting it like it’s a dog. To Louis’s infinite surprise, it stays still, settled on the tree trunk and fluttering its wings when Harry presses down a little too hard. 

“Look at how gorgeous it is,” Harry says. Louis spares a passing glance to the intricate markings on the insect’s wings, and bounces straight back to Harry. _You’re gorgeous_ , he wants to say, which. Okay.

“It looks scary,” Louis offers. 

Harry looks at him and rolls his eyes, but he’s fond. He pulls his hand away and watches as the moth stirs the air around them, taking flight and disappearing in-between the trees. 

“See, you insulted it,” Harry pouts. 

Louis bites his lip. He will not smile ridiculously at Harry’s childish jokes. He will not. 

He manages to retain his composure as they wander deeper, following the path as it loops around to take them back to the entrance. 

While he’s bent forward to inspect a water fountain, a butterfly lands in Harry’s hair. 

“Oh,” Harry squeaks, and his smile widens. He crosses his eyes trying to see through the tangled strands of his fringe. “What kind is it?” 

“I don’t…” Louis falters, “it’s blue?” 

_It’s damn lucky_ , is what Louis kind of really wants to say. Harry’s is the softest-looking hair Louis has ever seen, and he wants to bury his face in it a little; he has a feeling, though, that Harry might not appreciate that kind of attention from Louis as much as he does from an insect. 

It’s not the butterfly’s fault, Louis reminds himself. Butterflies probably have some sort of super vision that allows them to see people’s auras or whatever, and this one was drawn to Harry because Harry is everything good in the world. Louis can’t fault it for that. 

While Louis is getting tangled in his thoughts, Harry reaches a tentative hand up towards his hair. His fingers disappear in-between the strands, chasing the butterfly, and somehow, Harry manages to get it to stay on his pinkie while he carries it down to his face. 

The butterfly beats its electric blue wings, spidery legs marching across the back of Harry’s hand. 

“It’s a morpho,” Harry says in a whisper, again, a smile on his face that could power the entire butterfly house for at least a year. 

“Seriously,” Louis says, daring to come a little closer. “How do you know these things?” 

Harry shrugs, turning his hand as the butterfly keeps walking in circles. “Animals are cool. I read books and stuff.” 

Louis purses his lips and finally, finally gives up on trying to control his face. 

They get back to the entrance not long after, and Harry pouts for a good five minutes when he has to let his new friend go. He whispers something to it as it crawls along his sleeve and back down into his palm, a shock of blue that complements Harry’s skin. Finally, it flies away, and Harry stands in the middle of the path and waves goodbye. 

The air outside is, unsurprisingly, still freezing. Louis buttons back up at the speed of light, shoving his beanie on crooked to save his ears from falling off. Harry, the bastard, just nonchalantly puts his hands back in his pockets.

When they get back to the path, Louis’s eyes falls on the empty penguin beach exhibit right across from them. The pool’s been emptied, full of dirt and snow and rotting leaves, and the stands for visitors look completely deserted, except—no, there’s a bloke sitting on the very bottom step, munching on what looks like a sandwich. He’s dressed in a dark green jumper with the zoo logo on, and Louis, in a sudden bout of madness, gets an idea. 

“Hey, Harry?” he asks, pulling out his wallet. Harry turns to him, attentive, curls bouncing. 

“Could you please, please, please get me another tea? I need to go to the loo.”

Harry looks a bit taken aback, but he opens his palm to accept the coins. “Sure, Lou,” he says, and turns back to head for the gift shop. Louis waits until he disappears behind a bend, and then springs into action. 

“Mate!” he yells from where he is, running towards the penguin beach. The bloke looks up, frowning, just as Louis runs into the stands and along the pool to get to him. 

“Mate,” he says again, quieter this time, mostly because he’s out of breath. For a footie player, he truly is in horrendous shape. “Hi.” 

“Um, hi?” he says. From this close, Louis can see strangely bleached strands in his brown hair and a wicked sparkle in his eyes. If he were in less of a hurry, Louis might have spared a few minutes to get to know him better. 

“Hi,” Louis repeats, and sits down. “Sorry for barging in on you like this. ‘S just that I noticed you’re wearing a zoo jacket, and I had a question.”

“Yes, the penguins are inside,” he says, unbothered, and takes another bite of his sandwich. “Me name’s Niall, by the way, if you’re gonna ask for favours.” 

Louis blinks. “Um. I’m Louis?” 

“Nice to meet you, mate,” Niall says, turning to face him. His cheeks are red from the cold, and he’s got a round, friendly face – it’s only now that Louis sees how young he is. 

“You too,” Louis says, and then remembers he’s here for a reason. He might only have seconds left. “Listen, I noticed you were sitting next to the penguin exhibit, and I knew the penguins have to be _somewhere_ , and I was wondering. I mean. I’m here with someone, see, and—“

“And penguins are her favourite, right?” Niall grins. 

Louis wrings his fingers together. He’s suddenly lost all of his interpersonal skills. “Something like that.” 

“And you want to impress her, right?” 

“How many people like me do you get around here?” Louis asks, tilting his head. 

Niall laughs, belly-deep and free, half-chewed pieces of sandwich sticking to his teeth. “Lots, mate, but I think I like you best.” 

Louis relaxes a little, letting himself smile. “Cool, uh. Thanks.” 

“So,” Niall claps his hands. “You wanna get inside?” 

“Really?” Louis asks, then, “I mean, yes. Yes, we definitely do.” 

That’s about all the time he has. He hears Harry’s footsteps ringing down the path in the silent zoo, and it only takes a few seconds before his call of “Lou?”.

Louis immediately shrivels to about two inches tall when he hears the confusion in his voice. He sounds so _sad_ , somehow, and Louis damn near breaks a limb running back to the side of the pool, where Harry can see him. 

“Hazza!” he yells, a little shrill, voice reverberating. Harry’s standing by the inflatable caterpillar, wearing a frown. “Come up here!” 

Harry’s face clears when he spots him, hurrying towards Louis with two cups of vending machine tea. 

“ _Hazza_ , huh?” Niall says from way too close behind Louis, startling him. “Nice.” 

Louis might be clueless when it comes to flirting, but the implication here is obvious. Niall sounds amused about it, though, and when Louis looks back at him, he’s grinning. 

Once Harry gets to them, he automatically holds out Louis’s tea for him to take, but his eyes settle on Niall and bore into him. He looks weirdly concentrated, and a little scary. 

Niall seems to find all of this hilarious, and he steps forward to shake Harry’s free hand. “Hi, I’m Niall,” he says, easy, then steps back and look at Louis, like he’s expecting him to take the next step. 

Louis is kind of in the dark here, if he’s honest. “Right. This is Niall, and Niall is lovely, and he agreed to take us to see the penguins.” 

Harry’s smile is sudden like a flash of lightning, and it goes through Louis like one, too, electrifying him to the tips of his fingers. “The penguins?” he asks, breathless, and Louis could swear that the plastic cup starts shaking in his hand.

 “Yep,” Louis grins, feeling inordinately pleased with himself.

“Won’t you get in trouble?” Harry asks, concerned, but he seems to be physically unable to shake the smile. 

“Nah,” Niall waves a hand, bless him. “’M just a volunteer, and off-season work is shite anyway. I need a little excitement around here.” He turns away, then, throws away his sandwich wrapper and waves a hand at them: “This way, gentlemen.” 

“ _Lou_ ,” Harry whispers as soon as Niall’s out of hearing range. “Did you set this up?” 

He looks positively radiant, so beautiful Louis wants to plaster himself all over him and just soak up all this energy, this _magic_ he exudes.

“Um,” Louis deliberates. He hadn’t done much, technically – this is all down to Niall’s apparent delusion of being master matchmaker. Louis should give credit where credit is due, but he thinks a tiny white lie won’t matter. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” 

And it’s worth it, for the megawatt grin that’s for Louis and Louis only. “Remind me to thank you later,” Harry says. 

They follow Niall along the pool and into the hut, descending a few twisty flights of stairs. Finally, a warmly lit room opens in front of them, full of absolute mayhem. 

There are penguins _everywhere_ , a good two dozen of them, flapping their little wings and squawking and belly-sliding around a pristine white pool. The noise they’re making echoes underneath the tall glass ceiling. 

They also smell quite horribly, Louis notes. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Harry breathes, abandoning his tea on the last stair as he steps into the room after Niall. “Oh my goodness.” Louis can barely tears his eyes away from him to look where he’s going. 

“Welcome,” Niall grins. Some of the squawking dies down at the sound of his voice, and Louis can feel tiny penguin eyes land on him, pair after pair. 

“Louis,” Harry whispers. “Look at them, they’re so adorable.” 

For once, Louis has to agree. They’re much tinier than what he’d been expecting, barely up to his knees, and the way they waddle and flap around reminds him of his sisters when they were learning to walk. 

“You wanna say hi?” Niall asks, crouching down until he’s eye-level with the penguins. He addresses Harry directly.

 “Yes, please,” Harry squeaks, _again_ , and takes off his coat. He lets it drop into a puddle of water, and Louis doesn’t think much when he goes and picks it up for him.

“Alright, guys,” Niall raises his voice, quieting every last peep. The penguins look at him, motionless and blinking, like they’re schoolchildren being chastised by the teacher. “Come here! There’s somebody who’d love to meet you.” 

They don’t seem to comprehend much of what he’s saying – perhaps because of the lack of fish anywhere on his person, if what Louis has read about penguins is true. 

Finally, a lone, brave penguin breaks away from the crowd, hopping its way towards the three of them. Louis notices it looks different than all the others, with a bright shock of yellow feathers on both sides of its face. 

“Ricky, mate,” Niall grins, extending his hand as the penguin hops closer. It nudges Niall’s hand with its beak, and when it finds nothing, it moves on to Harry. 

In a scenario Louis should have seen coming by now, the penguin plops down at Harry’s feet and refuses to leave. Harry sits down right into a puddle to pet it, obviously delighted. 

“Hi, Ricky,” he coos, “aren’t you just the cutest thing.” 

Louis watches them, feeling himself smile and powerless to stop it. “He’s not like the others?” he says, attempting a question. 

“Nah,” Niall says, watching as more penguins waddle to him. “These are Humboldt penguins, he’s a Rockhopper. Bit of a mascot, I guess.” 

As Louis is about to ask another question, he feels something tug on the leg of his trousers. When he looks down, he comes face to face with a tiny beak and glistening eyes. 

“Hi,” he says. The penguin doesn’t deem it an appropriate greeting, and pulls on his trouser again. Louis sighs, sets down his things, and crouches. 

“This better?” he asks, and in response, the penguin butts its head against Louis’s knee. Louis scratches it behind where he thinks its ears might be, and watches contentedly as Harry experiences absolute bliss, surrounded by a squawking pile of feathers and saying hi to each and every one of them in a baby voice. 

“They’re so friendly,” he says, his voice just this side of shrill with excitement. 

“Don’t have a reason not to be,” Niall smiles, a little less manic than before. “They don’t have any predators on land. I think we’re basically really weird penguins to them.” 

From his comfortable perch on Harry’s lap, Ricky squawks to confirm.

Louis settles down on the tiled floor, accepting the hordes of cold, damp penguins that descend on him with open arms. Harry beams in his direction over their bald little heads, grinning like he’s five and it’s Christmas and he’s just gotten the bike he wanted. 

It’s half an hour before closing time when they finally say goodbye to Niall. Harry is bubbly and happy, muttering something or other under his breath when he hugs Niall tight around the neck and exchanges numbers with him. There’s something stirring deep in the pit of Louis’s stomach as he watches the scene; something dark and uncomfortable that he probably shouldn’t be feeling. 

Finally, they walk outside, into the pastel colours of dusk setting over London. The air is crisp, turning Louis’s skin cold through his wet clothes, but he finds that he doesn’t really care. 

A few steps down the path, Harry stops, hands in his pockets, shrouded in the fog of his own breath. 

“Harry?” Louis asks, curious. 

Harry turns to him with a smile. “Sorry, got a little carried away. It’s just—it’s really beautiful here.” 

Louis frowns as he looks around them, dead greenery and grey concrete, but he nods anyway. 

“Thank you so much,” Harry says then, bringing Louis’s attention back to him. “For coming with me. And for the penguins.” He’s wearing the softest little smile, and Louis is scared to breathe lest he blow it away. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, stepping a little closer, until Harry’s heat coils around him, comforting. “It was my pleasure, really.” 

He thinks they’re going to leave it at that; thinks he’d be fine with it, too, even though his hands are clenching against empty air, but Harry proves to be full of the unexpected once again. He pulls Louis into a hug, slow, like he’s not sure he’s allowed, their sides crashing until Louis turns and slots into his arms. 

Harry stinks like fish and penguin, but underneath, he’s still apple shampoo and comfort and Mediterranean sun. Louis tangles his fingers into the buttons of his coat. 

“You’re kind of the best friend I have, you know that?” Harry mumbles into Louis’s neck. He sounds his age, for once. 

“You’re mine too, Curly,” Louis replies, and realises with a start that he means it. He’d do anything for his friends, would defend them until his dying breath, but Harry’s different; he’s special, he’s _more_. Louis doesn’t know when that’s happened, and he immediately feels bad for Zayn and Stan, who’ve been there since the beginning of hurricane Harry. He can only hope they’d understand. 

Louis feels Harry smile against his skin, feels him press in a little tighter. They stay like that for long minutes, silent except for breaths that turn into fog, heads turned to watch the sun come down over the city. 

They stop for dinner and a pint on their way back to the hostel. Harry can’t stop looking around with big, suspicious eyes every time he takes a swig of beer, like his mum is going to come in and smack him upside the head. Louis watches him, steals his chips, and lets all of his fondness shine through.

*

**December 5th, 2009  
Doncaster, England**

Louis is in hell.

Louis is in hell, and he only has himself to blame.

He’s got his own arms wrapped around himself, blowing on the cup of tea cooling on the coffee table, trying not to rock back and forth as he processes what’s happening in front of him. 

Harry’s currently sitting with his legs crossed on their living room floor, laughing at something Daisy has said. He’s got the twins’ hands in his hair and Lottie and Fizzy sat in front of him, reading him questions out of a teen magazine quiz. 

Louis is used to his sisters’ antics, sure, and he’s been where Harry is hundreds of times, but he’s never enjoyed it as much as Harry seems to be. His hair is full of colourful clips and elastic bands and hopelessly tangled, but he’s still got the most brilliant smile on his face. 

Louis is really not sure he can handle it at all.

From the sofa next to him, Zayn regards Louis with one of his awful, smug, I-know-something-that-you-don’t looks. He’d met Harry properly, together with Stan, just a few minutes ago, taken an immediate liking to him, and then proceeded to look at Louis in a multitude of strange ways. Louis has absolutely no time to decipher any of them, as he’s currently too busy keeping himself together. 

“You should let your hair grow,” Phoebe gets out through her missing front tooth. 

Harry tugs on one of his own curls, considering. “I think you’re right. I’d look great with long hair.” He punctuates it with a giggle, which prompts all the girls to join him. 

The dangerous pit of warmth in Louis’s stomach swallows a few more of his internal organs. He doesn’t know what’s happening, just that looking at Harry as he is now, buried under a pile of Louis’s most beloved girls, giggling and red-faced and messy-haired, makes his hands shake just a little, and awakens a strange swarm of butterflies deep in his stomach. 

“You’d look like Mick Jagger,” Zayn contributes to the discussion. Harry immediately turns his head and beams at him. 

“Thanks,” he says and, inexplicably, turns to Louis. “D’you reckon I could be a rockstar?” 

“For sure,” Louis says, somehow managing to sound normal. “You’d have the whole world falling at your feet.” 

Or at least Louis. Louis is about ready to fall at his feet right now.

Harry grins. He turns away again, interested when Lottie offers to test him on what type of best friend he is, and Louis lets out the longest breath he’s ever held. 

“Louis,” Stan whispers. 

“What?” Louis whispers back, frowning.

“When’s he leaving?” 

Louis frowns deeper. “Tuesday, why?” 

Stan shakes his head; next to him, Zayn nods. “We should do something Tuesday night.”

“Okay?” says Louis, with absolutely zero idea of what is happening.

When bedtime rolls around, Zayn and Stan leave, offering Harry fistbumps and shoulder pats and “nice to meet you”s. Harry beams through their goodbyes. He also beams through the twins’ bath, which his presence is requested for, and through bedtime stories he’s made to read. By the time he emerges, Louis’s panic has gone down, and he’s left feeling soft and emotional and wobbly, a little like he’s made of jelly. 

Mum, wonderful as she is, makes them tea, and they somehow end up sitting on the front steps, breathing fog into the night. 

“It’s so quiet here,” Harry says, his knee knocking against Louis’s. “Reminds me of home.” 

“Where’s home?”  

“Holmes Chapel,” Harry smiles. “It’s just—in the middle of nowhere, really. I’d wake up in the morning and hear cows mooing right under my window.”  “Sounds like a great place to grow up,” Louis says, looking across the deserted street. The lights are on in all the windows, scattered down the road like fallen stars, and he’s reminded off all the evenings he’s spent running around here, petting the neighbours’ cats and chasing his football. He wouldn’t change that for anything, but it’s not the same now. The quiet is heavy, weighing on Louis, trapping him, and he keeps thinking of something more, something that would take him away. 

“It was,” Harry nods, taking a sip of his tea. “Don’t think I’d want to come back now, though. Rome’s really loud, but it’s…big. It’s alive, you know?” 

“I do,” Louis nods, though he’s not sure he does. He’s busy trying to take in air, replaying Harry’s last words. _Don’t think I’d want to come back now_. 

It’s not that Louis doesn’t believe Harry when he says Italy’s great, but he’s always thought—Harry had always said. He’d always talked about England like he misses it, like as soon as he’s free to, he’ll come back and stay. He’ll come back and be close to Louis. 

Now, he’s struck with a sudden image of himself moving to Italy, of all places, getting tan as he wanders the streets and tries to get a hang of the language. Why, he’s not sure. Harry is his friend, best friend, whatever, and he’s somehow become so unbearably important to Louis, but he’s got a life of his own. He might not want Louis following him around like a lost puppy. 

“Have you lived here your whole life?” Harry asks, tearing Louis away from his tangled thoughts. “In Doncaster, I mean?” He looks soft and open and interested. 

“Yup,” says Louis. “Went through every bit of growing up on this street.” 

“Every bit?” Harry grins. 

“Yes,” Louis rolls his eyes. “Zayn and Stan, too. We were sat right here when we were twelve and Zayn called a _meeting_ to tell us he’d snogged Perrie Edwards behind the gym building.” 

Harry laughs, loud in the silence. “Who’d you snog, then?” There’s something in his voice, a tense little note that hadn’t been there before.

“Er,” Louis looks down into his tea. It’s reflecting the warm light from the kitchen, and Louis suddenly wishes they’d stayed inside. “Nobody.” 

“Oh. Why?” Then: “Oh God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you that, that’s rude.” 

Louis can’t help his smile. He thinks he might as well – there’s something about Harry that makes Louis feel safe, like he’ll take any secret and keep it with him and tell Louis lovely things in return. 

“I’m, uh. I’m asexual. I never really understood what was so great about,” he waves his hand, “all that.” 

“Oh,” Harry whispers. He’s breathing slow and steady, knuckles white around his cup as he bites down on his lip. 

“It’s okay, Haz,” Louis says, soft. “You can ask.” 

Harry smiles, but it dies quickly. “I. I don’t want to ask what it means, because I feel like I should know, but I don’t.”

 “Well,” Louis starts, setting his cup down. He wraps his arms around himself instead, keeping the warmth in. “I don’t get attracted to people, like, sexually. I can see that people are beautiful, like, the same way a sunset would be. Aesthetically. But the thing that blokes do where they turn after a bird and go _nice arse_?” he looks to Harry, waits for his hesitant nod. “Well, I can’t do that. I mean, I could, but I don’t get the point. Arses are just arses. You sit on them. I don’t understand it at all.”

“That…that makes sense.” 

“Does it?” Louis looks up, surprised. “Does it really?” 

“Yeah,” Harry nods, and he’s slow about it, deliberate even more than usual, like he’s picking the best words to fit his thoughts. “Do you…” he falters. “Do you want to fall in love?”

Louis hums, contemplating. “I don’t know if I _want_ to,” he says, “but I think I understand love. Like, if I found someone I’d want to be with, I think I’d like the cuddling and the snogging and stuff. I’d like a relationship. Just, you know, not a sexual one. Which…sort of limits my options.” 

“What do you mean?” Harry asks. He’s moved closer, Louis notes. 

“How many people our age would want to be with someone and not shag them?” he raises an eyebrow. “None, that’s how many. I have to find someone who’s like me, or wait until I’m old and senile and relationships are about waking each other up when you fall asleep in front of the telly.”

“I don’t think that’s true, necessarily,” Harry says. He’s smiling at Louis, small and so very genuine, so close he’s almost leaning his head on Louis’s shoulder. “There are so many people who could fall in love with you for _you_. Sex is not that big a deal.” 

“Are you actually sixteen?” Louis asks, burying his face in Harry’s hair, seeking comfort. He feels a little like he’s broken himself open. 

“I’m an old soul,” Harry laughs. There’s silence for a while, Harry’s hand searching for Louis’s in the dark, then: “Thank you so much for trusting me with this.” 

“That’s okay,” Louis says, though he suspects they both know it’s really, really not. “You don’t…you don’t think I’m broken, do you?”

“ _No_ ,” Harry says immediately, harsher than Louis has ever heard him. “No, of course not, why would you—has someone called you that?” He sounds—strange. A little feral, with a small growly note in his voice, like a dog guarding its territory. 

“Yeah, but it’s not—we were young. Stupid. It’s not a big deal anymore.” 

Harry presses himself closer, impossibly, a light hand landing on Louis’s knee. “Are you sure?” 

He’s so gentle, so _soft_ , and to Louis’s own horror, he finds himself tearing up. The streetlights blur, then turn into stars, sharp spikes that hurt Louis’s eyes. 

“I’m sure,” he says, unconvinced. “It’s—they’ve apologised to me. Several times. It hurt back then, but it doesn’t anymore.” Silence. “It shouldn’t, at least.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry offers. “Can I hug you?” 

Louis sniffles through a chuckle. “’Course you can.”

And Harry does. He leans heavy into Louis’s side first, bumping their heads together, hands warm on Louis’s neck and side and hip, but he seems to change his mind. In a single move more graceful than what Louis has come to expect from him, Harry throws a leg over his lap and straddles him. Which. Should perhaps be weird, but Louis can’t bring himself to be anything but comforted. 

Harry wraps his arms securely around Louis’s neck, their cheeks sliding together, damp with tears that Louis doesn’t remember letting escape. He winds his own arms around Harry’s waist, holding on to the fabric of his coat, and lets himself settle down, little by little. 

“You’re wonderful,” Harry mumbles just under Louis’s ear. “Don’t let anybody tell you differently.” 

Louis squeezes tighter. He still feels raw, like he’s taken off a bandage after too long and every touch of air hurts, but Harry’s presence – his warm weight on top of Louis, the way he envelopes him, like he’s trying to touch everywhere at once – makes it so much easier. 

Louis has never imagined telling anybody about himself like this, always thought it too much fuss to explain things people aren’t willing to understand. As he closes his eyes to the streetlights and gets lost in Harry instead, he thinks it’s not so terrible, after all.

*

**December 7th, 2009  
Doncaster, England**

“We can always just go inside,” Louis says from his nest of blankets. He’s freezing, which is not surprising at all, as it’s bloody December. 

“No,” Harry grins, like his nose and cheeks haven’t gone cherry red from the cold. “I want to stay. Look at the stars. You can’t see them like this in Rome.” 

And so they stay. Louis grumbles steadily throughout the evening, gathering every blanket and extra jumper they have around himself until he can barely move, and Harry walks around the garden, head thrown back and face excited. He traces the constellations with his fingers, mutters their names, and Louis finds himself repeating them under his breath.

They end up sleeping in the tent that night, right in the Tomlinsons’ back garden, pressed together as tight as they can, sharing heat and secrets and terrible jokes, courtesy of Harry. The supernova in Louis’s chest settles, like it’s there to stay, a happy thrum under his skin, blood full of stars. 

Harry’s hand somehow finds its way to his, warm even in the chill, and as Louis falls asleep, the only thing on his mind is a foreign, steady chant of _forever_.

*

**December 11th, 2009  
Bramley, England**

“You look like Gollum,” is how Zayn welcomes him to work. 

Louis glares from underneath his greasy fringe. “They stole the Precious,” he says, deadpan, and shoves past Zayn into the back room to slump in their single fold-out chair. 

The thing is, he’s aware that he looks like death warmed over. He just doesn’t care enough to do anything about it.

Zayn leans against the wall next to him, handing him a cup of tea. He suddenly seems a lot less mean. “How’re you holding up?” he asks. 

“M' alright,” Louis lies. 

He’s not, really. He doesn’t know why, and after his third night spent staring at the ceiling, he doesn’t even care. He just wants it – this weight in his chest, in his heart, the fuzzy veil over his thoughts – to go away. 

The mattress Harry slept on is still on the floor of Louis’s room. Mum had taken the pillow and the duvet and made him promise he’d put it away, but he hasn’t been able to bring himself to, not just yet. It’s less final like this – feels more like maybe any day now, Harry will show up at the door, looking for something he’d accidentally left behind. Maybe Louis could be that something. 

“Yeah, that’s bullshit,” says Zayn. Louis has never been able to fool him very well, anyway. “You never called me back on Tuesday, we need to go out tonight.” 

“Mmrf,” Louis says, face buried in his cup. “Can’t. Tired.” 

Zayn throws a pack of chewing gum at him. 

The day continues in much the same spirit, a stream of faceless customers that yell at Louis because of things he can’t control. It starts raining halfway through the afternoon, and by the time Jade and Jesy get in for the night shift, Louis is about ready to fall into bed and spend another sleepless night staring at shadows.

What he gets instead is Zayn and Stan and a bottle of vodka. They follow him home, and refuse to leave even after he shuts the door in their faces. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he says when he finally gives up and lets them in. Stan nods solemnly, hands him a plastic cup, and locks all of them in Louis’s room. 

“So,” he says as he pours himself a little more than advisable, “loverboy is gone.” 

“I said I didn’t wanna talk about it,” Louis grumbles, swishing vodka from one side of his mouth to the other. The streetlights paint tall shadows on the ceiling, and Louis is so tired he sees them play with a hundred different colours. He slaps a pillow across his face. He’d scream into it, but he can still hear Daisy and Phoebe rustling about on the other side of the wall, settling down into sleep.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking to you. Z and I were just discussing your _situation_ on our way here.”

Louis lifts the pillow. “You were talking about me without me?” 

“We do that all the time,” Zayn says. He mostly sounds like he’s full of shit, but then again, Louis still hasn’t quite learned how to read him. 

“Whatever,” he says, through his ever-growing curiosity. “Gimme more vodka and leave me alone.” 

They comply, and Louis’s cup is refilled. It’s been a while since he’s gone out and been the life of the party, and he can already feel the alcohol burning in his stomach. Maybe it’ll put him to sleep. 

They’re silent for a while. Louis thinks he can hear Daisy whispering something. 

“Listen, though, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. This has got to suck.” 

Louis frowns. “It’s fine. I guess I’ll see him again at some point.” He ignores the gaping black hole in his chest that the words leave behind. 

“That’s what I mean,” Stan continues, voice already slurring with all the shots he’s knocked back. “Relationship are like, you know. You want to be with the person all the time, but you can’t. That’s shit.” 

Louis is suddenly wide awake. “What do you mean _relationships_.” 

“You do know what relationships are, right?” asks Zayn. 

“I know what relationships are,” Louis says, inexplicably angry, and something bitter burns at the back of his throat. “Harry and I are not in one. What the fuck.” 

“You’re not?” they ask in unison, sitting up. Zayn’s got a wild frown on his face, and Stan’s eyes are wide. 

“No?” 

“But. Why?” 

Louis steals the entire bottle away, feeling like it’s the only way he’ll be able to deal with this conversation. “ _Because_ ,” he starts in a slow voice, “we don’t feel that way about each other.” 

Zayn raises an eyebrow. “He definitely feels _that way_ about you.”

Louis closes his eyes and drinks; ignores the burning in his heart, his veins, the sickening lurch his stomach gives at Zayn’s words. “Stop it,” he says.

“Sorry,” Zayn says immediately, “We just. We really thought you two were, like, together?” 

Louis feels sick. There’s a realisation at his fingertips, but he doesn’t think he wants it. 

“He’s totally in love with you, though,” says Stan. “He looks at you all gooey and weird.” Zayn smacks him before he’s even finished talking. Louis feels a smile tug at his lips, but it falls just as quickly. 

“I don’t think I believe you,” Louis says. “’Sides, I’m not in love with him, so.” 

Zayn, eyes uncharacteristically gentle, picks himself up and sits next to Louis on the bed. “Are you sure? Not even a crush?” 

Louis bites his lip. Breathes in, out, and nothing is any clearer. “How would I know?” he asks, finally, the question that’s been burning on his tongue, even before today. Louis doesn’t _know_ ; how can he trust himself? How can he be sure in what he’s feeling when he’s—like this? 

“I don’t know. I don’t know, Lou, but it’s—you should think about it.” 

And so Louis does. He pulls his knees up to his chest, bottle in one hand, and looks outside at the sky, the same way he’d done when Harry’s plane was taking off, disappearing above the horizon.

It had hurt so much, back then, and the pain’s only settled deeper into Louis’s bones now, a part of him. He’d spent a week joined at the hip with Harry, knocking elbows in their hostel bathroom and leaning into each other on the tube, talking long into the night in Louis’s own room, looking out at the stars. Every waking and sleeping minute, Harry was all that was on his mind, and still, Louis wanted him to stay for longer – _forever_ , his mind whispers. The mattress he’d slept on is right here, laid out on the floor, bare and probably dirty from how many times Louis has stepped on it. It’s a physical reminder, always, a hope that Harry might come back and bring back warm skin and sleepy eyes and wild hair. 

Louis’s supernova is a little beaten down and a little dim, now that he’s back to texting at all hours of the day. It’s when Harry sends him yet another knock-knock joke, another picture of him looking bored on the backdrop of the Colosseum that it flares, the familiar tingle under Louis's skin.

Maybe that’s just what Harry does to Louis – ignites a whole new personal universe right inside his chest, every beat of his heart a new Big Bang. 

He’s the sun and the moon, he’s warmth, and he’s happiness. He’s the exception to everything. 

“Yeah, so,” he says, a minute later. “You might have a point.” 

Zayn’s moved closed, an arm wrapped around Louis’s shoulder that calms him down. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Louis swallows, lets the knowledge spread through him and ring true. He has _feelings_ for Harry, and that’s—that’s weird. “Yeah, fuck.”

“Hey,” Stan crawls closer, reaching out to pat Louis’s knee. “You’ll be alright. It’s not the end of the world.” 

Louis shakes his head. “How can I fancy him when he lives in bloody _Rome_? What am I supposed to do?” 

“You have time to figure that out,” Zayn says, kind. “Harry feels the same, you’ll see. You’ll be fine.” 

Louis grumbles. He drinks more vodka. He lies down and stares at the ceiling and _thinks_ way too much while Zayn and Stan argue about putting on a film. 

_You’re wonderful_ , Harry’s voice resonates in his ear. Two hours later, he sends Louis a text:

_Miss you so much I hope youre not doing anything fun without me look at this picture of a curly pigeon I found xxx H_

The butterflies that swarm his stomach as he laughs just seem to be there to point out the obvious.

*

**March 15th, 2010  
Doncaster, England**

It happens in the middle of the night. By now, Louis has come to expect the unexpected from Harry at all times, but a phone call at half four still seems a little extreme. 

“’Lo?” he croaks when he finally gets the phone to stop ringing, holding it to his ear upside down. He’s half hanging off the bed, having started awake. 

“Lou, hi,” Harry says on the other end. He sounds croaky, like he’s just woken up himself. 

“Hi,” Louis says, cautious. “What’s going on?” 

The house is dark, Harry silently breathing into the phone as Louis pads to the kitchen on bare feet. “Harry?” he asks again, concerned. 

“I need to tell you something,” Harry blurts. His voice is high now, thin and a little squeaky, and Louis is so, so confused. He hates talking to Harry like this, on the phone, with no video feed and no lovely boy to press himself close to. 

“Okay,” he says slowly, sitting down at the table. There’s a cup of cold tea on it, probably left behind by his mum, and he sips on it gratefully, gross as it is. “Is everything okay, love? Are you alright?” 

Harry laughs a little on the other end. “I’m fine, don’t worry. Just, um. Couldn’t really sleep cause I was thinking about you.” 

He’s always so honest, Harry is. Louis has trouble breathing through it sometimes. 

“And I…” silence. “Bloody hell, why did I think I could do this over the phone.” 

“It’s okay,” Louis says, for lack of anything better. “I’m—I just have a sleepy face on. You’re not missing anything.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

Harry is silent, and so Louis stays silent, too. He’s got this strange feeling in his chest, like a string that’s pulling tighter with every breath, waiting for Harry’s words to snap it. 

“So. Louis.” 

“Yes?” Louis bites down on his lip, bumping his bare toes against one of the table legs. He feels fidgety. 

“I’ve kind of…wanted to tell you something for a while, if that’s alright?” 

“Of course it’s alright,” Louis says, grinning into his cup. “I’ve missed you voice.” 

Harry hiccups happily. “I’ve missed _you_. That’s sort of what this is about. I mean, Gemma told me to wait until I see you again, but I don’t know when that’ll be and this is sort of important to say so I thought I’d call and I probably woke you up I’m so sorry—“

“Haz,” Louis soothes. “Breathe.” 

“Right,” Harry huffs. Louis thinks he can almost hear his heart racing on the other end of the line – or maybe it’s his own. 

There’s silence again, for a second, two, three. 

Then: “I’m in love with you,” Harry says, and the oxygen in the room disappears. Louis chokes on cold, cold tea.

Oh.

Oh God. 

“Harry,” he wheezes out, holding his chest. His thoughts go into a tailspin, an annoying, nondescript buzz that fills his head. 

“I’m sorry!” Harry squeaks immediately. “Are you okay?” 

Louis takes a breath through his nose. The burning in his throat subsides, soothed by the happiness that’s rapidly inflating inside Louis’s chest, fitting itself into every crevice of his body. “I’m alright, I…” he trails off, staring at a spot on the wall. It’s been there since the twins were two and Daisy spat out her mashed peas. When he was here, Harry had decided it looks like Mickey Mouse and proceeded to talk to it in a mouse voice until he had all the girls giggling into their dinner. “I love you too.” 

“I know it’s—wait, what?” 

Louis can just imagine his face – flushed just a little bit red like it gets when he’s nervous, brows scrunched, mouth open on a word that never made it out. He wants, more than anything, to be right there, to touch Harry’s sleep-warm skin. 

The supernova is back, burning brighter than it ever has. Louis can see some of its stars right in front of his eyes, floating in the dark space. Thousands of them are tickling him behind the ribs, making him want to laugh. 

“I’m in love with you too, Harry,” he says, quiet, and curls his entire body around the mobile. “What did you think I was going to say?” 

“I don’t know, I—I didn’t—I just woke up in the middle of the night and really needed to tell you, I didn’t really. Wow. I didn’t think this through at all, I’m so sorry.” 

Louis gives in, letting a small, soft laugh escape. “It’s okay,” he’s barely audible in the empty room, drowned out by the buzz of the fridge. 

Harry laughs right back. It’s so pure and gentle and full of joy, and Louis’s chest constricts. “Now I really wish I hadn’t done this over the phone,” he mumbles. “What face have you got on?” 

Louis rubs a hand across his cheeks, surprised to find moisture gathering underneath his eyes. “A happy one, Haz. Really happy.” 

“Me too,” Harry breathes. “God, it’s—it’s almost four over there, isn’t it? I should make you go to bed, but I just want to talk to you forever.” 

Louis picks himself up, padding into the living room. The cold floor underneath his feet only wakes him up more, doing nothing to still his heart in the breakneck rhythm it’s settled into. 

“Then talk to me,” he says once he settles on the sofa, leaning against pillows and covered with a blanket up to his chin. It’s warm, but not warm enough – not when Harry feels like he’s a mere touch away, like he could step through the line and wrap Louis up in his arms. “I like your voice.” 

“I like my voice too,” Harry quips, cheeky. “And yours. I kind of want you to sing me to sleep.” 

Louis feels a blush rise into his cheeks, searing his skin. “That’s a terrible line, Styles.” 

“Not a line,” Harry says, soft, and Louis feels his voice like a touch. “Hey, Louis?” 

“Mhm?” 

“I know I’m shit at flirting, but would you like to be my boyfriend anyway?” 

There’s something about hearing him say it. That something makes Louis shiver with how _pleased_ he is, a horde of butterflies coming alive in his stomach. “Really?” 

“Well, _duh_. I love you.” 

Louis grins at the words. “It’s going to take me a while to get used to that.” 

“That’s alright,” says Harry. He sounds—kind; young and wise beyond his years all at once. “We’ve got all the time in the world.” 

Louis bites his lip. “You don’t…you don’t mind? Me?” 

And of course, _of course_ Harry understands what Louis means in a half second flat. 

“ _No_. God, Lou, no. I love all of you.” 

Louis blinks back a couple of stray tears, grinning at his own pale reflection in the windowpane. Harry is so, so wonderful. Louis might get to stick around and watch him grow even wonderful-er. 

“Then I’d love to,” he says into the phone. “Be your boyfriend, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s voice breaks happily. 

“Yeah.” 

“You do realise we’re probably going to be those sappy bastards nobody wants to be around?” 

Louis laughs again, lets it ring clear and loud in the silent house. “Bring it, Styles.” 

And Louis hopes, prays, that he will. 

Neither of them go back to bed that night. Louis stays in the living room, head under the blanket and staring into the bright light of his phone screen, texting once they’ve gotten too tired to talk. Harry overuses the heart emojis, and Louis is full of contentment all the way to his fingertips.

*

**July 25th, 2010  
Rome, Italy**

So Italy is hot. 

In theory, Louis has always known this – as his geography teacher used to say, the further south you go, the warmer it is. He still doesn’t think anything could have prepared him for the wall of solid heat that meets him once he walks out of the airport, suitcase handle in one hand and Harry’s hand in the other. 

The air is heavy, difficult to breathe, full of a strange kind of moisture that leaves Louis’s mouth bizarrely dry. Sweat immediately starts beading all over his body, a hurried attempt to handle the difference between the air-conditioned arrivals hall and here in the pits of hell. 

“Jesus,” is all he says to Harry, looking up at the sun. It’s a painfully bright circle in the cloudless sky, and Harry’s strangely attractive tan now makes a lot more sense. 

“I did warn you,” Harry chirps, happy as a clam. His smile hasn’t dropped since he saw Louis fight his way through the crowds and to him. 

“You told me, quote, ‘it’s getting a little warm’. This is not _a little warm_.” 

Harry barks – laughs – and pulls Louis closer. “You’re so cute,” he says, and presses a kiss to the side of Louis’s head. “Come on.” 

They get into a cab that has Backstreet Boys blasting from the car radio, and Harry only lets go of Louis’s hand long enough to steal his suitcase and hand it over to their driver. 

The road is narrow and very charming, somehow, lined with bright flower bushes and tall crooked trees. Stone pines, Harry says. 

“I’ve never heard of those,” says Louis.

“Me either,” Harry mumbles, grinning into the midday sun, “then I read a tourist guide.” 

“Why?” 

He shrugs, nonchalant. “So I could be the best tour guide I can possibly be, of course.” 

Louis grins like a fool. 

They get stuck in a jam eventually, rolling slowly over the big, white letters of the word ROMA laid down on the asphalt. The motorway turns into open, sunny streets, lined by rows of cars and tall blocks of flats, with balconies overflowing with flowers and heavy wooden shutters. Their driver navigates the traffic expertly, humming along to _I Want It That Way_ , and Harry narrates the passing scenery right into Louis’s ear. 

Finally, they turn into a narrow one-way street, and the car jerks to a stop. Harry’s pulling Euro notes out of his wallet as their cabbie says something in rapid Italian, laughing as he does. Harry grins at him, as bright and sunny as the day outside.

They fold themselves out of the car and back into the heat. Harry gets Louis’s suitcase back, huffing as he pulls it out of the boot. 

“ _Grazie_ ,” he says before the driver has a chance to get back in, and something warm stirs in Louis’s stomach. Italian sounds nice, he decides, and doubly so when it’s from Harry’s lips. 

Harry’s flat is on the fourth floor, and getting up there would be a challenge even if Louis hadn’t insisted on getting his suitcase back and dragging it up the stairs by himself. Harry’s already two flights above him, cackling as he stomps about, and Louis wants to yell rude things at him, but he’s mostly stuck on how adorable, how happy, Harry sounds. 

The flat is empty, just as Harry had promised, with his mum and stepdad visiting someone back in England. It’s gorgeous on the inside, open plan, all tall ceilings and big windows, a living room full of comfortable-looking furniture. Harry looks right at home as he toes his shoes off and flings his arms wide open, turning to Louis with a grin. 

“Welcome,” he says, dramatic, and Louis smiles at him while he gets his breath back.

Welcome, indeed. He’s actually here – actually in bloody Rome, actually in Harry’s flat, actually _with Harry_. He’d spent two hours in the car and two hours at the airport and three hours on a plane for this, folding his legs this way and that until they were cramping, and it was all worth it just for the look in Harry’s eyes right now. 

Louis’s got two weeks to spend out in the sun with his favourite person. It doesn’t really get much better than that. 

“Thanks,” he remembers to say. He’s about to compliment the flat, or the strange painting of a vase of flowers that’s hanging in the hall, or something to keep his mouth busy while he unlaces his shoes. Harry, however, has different ideas. 

He crosses the hall in two strides – his legs are _still_ getting longer, what the hell – until he’s pressed right up to Louis, an arm around his waist, hugging him, except not quite. 

They’ve already done this in the arrivals hall, arms wrapped around each other so tight Louis could barely breathe, pressing desperate ‘missed you’s into the other’s skin, and it’s less now – less urgent, less bruising, less unbelievable. It’s just Harry, and that soft air he always has around him.

Louis wraps his own arms around Harry’s neck, but he doesn’t tuck his head into his shoulder like he wants to. They just—look, really, eyes meeting and foreheads almost touching. 

“Hi,” Louis says, inexplicably, like he hasn’t already repeated it into their hug until the word had ceased to be a word.

“Oops,” Harry blurts, eyes bright, and it only takes Louis a second to catch on. His heart warms at the memory of Harry’s streetlamp halo. 

“I love you,” he says, because they’re the only words humming underneath his skin, itching to press themselves into every inch, every crevice of Harry. 

Harry’s light shines a notch brighter, an impossible grin taking over all his features, and he’s so gentle, so soft, like Louis is the best thing he’s ever seen. 

“Gosh,” is what he actually lets out of his mouth, his cheeks going red immediately. _Gosh_ , seriously. Louis is so in love it hurts a little. “I mean. I love you too, Lou.” 

Louis slides a palm down Harry’s chest, over where his heart is beating, loud and strong. It’s so _nice_ , being this close. Louis has always been a tactile person, but touches from friends have never felt like this.

“So listen,” Harry says suddenly, startling Louis out of his little tranquil state. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something, but I didn’t really want to…” he waves one of his hands, trying to find the words. “I didn’t want to do it over the phone again.” 

Louis hums in understanding. Harry seems suddenly fidgety, almost nervous; his eyes dart from Louis’s eyes to the front door to the wall to—to Louis’s lips. 

Louis might not be _that_ clueless, after all. 

He smiles at Harry, tucks a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. “D’you want to kiss me?”

Harry squeaks and takes a step away. “Did I say any of that out loud?” 

He looks so _horrified_ ; Louis can’t help stifling a giggle into his sleeve. “You were just,” he bites his lip, “staring. A little bit.” 

Harry goes red again. Louis finds it fascinating – he wouldn’t have pegged Harry, lanky, curly, fearless Harry, for someone who gets embarrassed so easily. “I’m sorry,” he groans. “I don’t want to mess this up.” 

“Hey,” Louis wraps light fingers around his wrists, pulling Harry back in. “You’re not going to mess anything up. Not as long as you talk to me.” 

“I do want to kiss you,” Harry admits, pulse jumping under Louis’s hold. “But we need to talk about it first. And about, like, the rest of this stuff. What you’re comfortable with.” 

Louis loosens his hold, trails his hands up Harry’s arms and over his shoulders. He touches a finger to the skin under Harry’s eyes that’s a bruised, dark blue. He’d had to wake up early to pick Louis up, despite Louis’s own insistence that he was perfectly capable of getting in a car with a stranger in a foreign country and handing them Harry’s address. 

“Thank you,” he says. “For thinking about this at all.” 

Harry opens his mouth and closes it again, like he’s not sure what to say. Finally, he murmurs a response: “Of course, Lou.”

“I promise we’ll talk, yeah? Just—after we’ve had some tea.” 

“Tea sounds nice,” Harry grins. “Yeah.” 

He goes to step away, moving, and Louis’s fingers catch on his lips before they fall away. Louis can’t help himself – he’s a naturally curious creature, often to his own detriment. 

“Just,” he says, stopping Harry in his tracks, “let me try.” 

Harry looks bemused but willing, letting Louis into his personal space like it doesn’t exist. His eyes widen when Louis goes up on tiptoes (and when did that happen, honestly), touches a hand to his face, and connects their lips. 

And that’s—oh. That’s so, so wonderful. 

Harry’s mouth tastes sharp and bright like chewing gum, soft and silky. His breath is short, breaking in small bursts against Louis’s cheek, and he stands stock-still, a little like he’s scared of moving. Louis stays where he is, though, shifting his lips just a fraction, and eventually, Harry’s hands come down to rest on his hips, big and warm, soft even through the fabric of Louis’s shirt. 

They’re so close there’s barely a breath of air between them, and Louis would get even closer if he could. There’s this unfamiliar, pleasant pit of warmth deep in his stomach, a little like a volcano that erupts when Harry’s close to him, sending a low-burning, tickling kind of fire through Louis’s veins. He feels connected to Harry, intimate, and it’s not something he’s felt before, but something he wants to feel always. It’s a little like breaking himself open again, and again, Harry is right there to cradle the pieces in his hands and help Louis put himself back together. 

When they separate, it’s with a small smacking sound that takes Louis by surprise. It makes him giggle a little, full of endorphins, and Harry joins him in no time at all. 

“One,” he murmurs.

 “What?” 

“Kiss number one,” Harry says. “It’s important.” 

When he looks at Louis, his eyes are big and glassy, a beautiful mossy green in the low light of the hall. “Was that good?” he asks, as if the fact that Louis has practically latched on to him, spider monkey style, isn’t answer enough. 

“That was really good,” Louis indulges him, grinning, speaking in a tone soft enough only for Harry to hear. “I’d like to do that again. Lots of times.” 

Harry grins, pecks Louis on the forehead. “God,” he says, with a hint of laughter in his voice, “I’m actually stupid for you, Louis Tomlinson.” 

“I _am_ great,” Louis agrees into Harry’s neck, inhaling. Harry smells of sweat and sun and the cab, with faded hints of that god-awful cologne he still insists on using. It’s a scent that’s come to mean comfort to Louis, just because it lets him know that Harry is close by. 

They find their way into the kitchen eventually. It’s connected to the living room, and it takes roughly five steps to get there, but Harry insists on holding Louis’s hand. With combined effort, they manage to pull the windows open on the way, letting in a lovely breeze that’s stirring the air this high up. 

Harry sits Louis at the table while he goes about putting the kettle on. Before he can leave, Louis can’t resist pulling him in, tilting his face up for a kiss that Harry happily gives, and thinking _yes_. This is how it’s supposed to be. 

He looks out of the window as Harry putters around with teabags and sugar and milk. There’s a block of flats right opposite, with small balconies and air conditioning units stuck to the wall like flies, and beyond, Louis sees twisty streets lit up by the morning sun. There’s the occasional honk of a horn, the _whoosh_ of a car rolling by, but other than that, the air is quiet, peaceful; Louis almost wouldn’t believe that he’s in a metropolis, a place that Harry once described as lovely, but ridiculously loud. 

“Are we touristing today?” Louis asks idly, watching a bird flit around the flowers on a nearby balcony. 

“Dunno,” Harry replies, pouring steaming water into a mug that says _Viva l’Italia_. “We can, if you really want, but I thought we could just walk around here today. I can show you my favourite spots,” he grins, looking at Louis over his shoulder like he’s got a plan. “And I’m cooking you a welcome dinner, so we should be back early. I promise we’re going downtown first thing tomorrow,” he adds, as if Louis could even think to be disappointed when _his boyfriend is cooking him dinner_. Bloody hell. Louis can barely distinguish the right end of a spoon. 

“Talk first, though,” says Harry, still wearing that lovely, dimply smile of his as he hands Louis a mug. He sits down next to Louis rather than opposite him, hooking his ankle around Louis’s. Louis maybe wants to sit next to him forever. 

“Okay,” he says, getting ready to let all of his walls down. He’s only a little surprised to find out that what’s left of them crumbles as he watches Harry blow on his tea, an enormous pout in place. “I’m not…sure what you want to know, though.” 

“I mean, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me,” says Harry seriously, “I just think that, you know, it’s important to have some things out in the open. To make sure I don’t cross any boundaries.” 

Louis shakes his head, feeling irrepressibly fond, and reaches across the tabletop to pry one of Harry’s hands away from his mug and take it into his own. He keeps being endlessly fascinated. “I love you a lot, d’you know that?” 

“I do,” Harry smiles, just a little. “And I want it to stay that way, so…” he shrugs one shoulder. 

“Okay,” Louis sighs. “Well. I never actually told you, like. What being asexual was about, exactly.” 

“I did some reading,” Harry admits, staring at the table, and of course, _of course_ he did. “But most of what I found said that asexuality is a really broad spectrum, and I don’t want to, like. Presume.”

  _You’re so fucking lovely_ , Louis thinks, and makes a mental note to tell Harry later. “I don’t want sex,” he says, figuring it’s best to get the biggest one out of the way. He watches Harry’s face carefully. “Like, at all. I’m not—it doesn’t gross me out or anything, but I just really, really don’t want it. It seems so pointless to me.”

He doesn’t miss Harry’s rapid blink, the small twitch of his fingers, and how he hides those things away immediately and frowns, angry at himself. 

“It’s okay to not understand, you know. Or to think I’m wrong. I just…” he squeezes Harry’s hand tight, tighter. “I just want you to know that I love you, Harry, I really do. I know sex and love are usually somewhat connected, but they’re not to me.” 

“I’m sorry,” says Harry. “You don’t have to explain yourself because of me. I know you love me, yeah?” he looks at Louis then, finally, and his face has a hundred different emotions tucked into its crevices. “I’m probably making this more difficult than it needs to be. I’m sorry.” 

Louis can’t stand it, really, can’t stand to see his boy, the brightest, loveliest person Louis has ever met, apologise over things he’s doing right. “No, love,” he whispers. “You’re trying to understand me, that’s all. You’re being so wonderful about all of this.”

The breeze ruffles Harry’s curls, a ringlet falling in front of his eyes. It brings warmth with it, a scent like the sun and a whiff of salt, a promise of the sea. Louis feels like the luckiest person in the world. 

“Okay,” Harry sniffles a little. “I just. What are you okay with? I know you kissed me, but…”

“I like kissing,” Louis says honestly, nudging Harry’s foot with his own to get him to smile. “I like being close to you. I like it when you touch me, like, pretty much anywhere,” he grins. “I just have no interest in taking it any further. That’s it, really.”

“You’ll tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable, right?” Harry turns to him with big eyes, and Louis is suddenly reminded of how young he is. 

“I don’t think you will,” says Louis. “But yes. Yes, of course.” 

“Alright,” Harry sniffles again, looking into his tea. “Thank you.” 

Louis, if he’s honest with himself, can’t actually take this anymore. The warm air between them feels like it’s a thousand miles, like Harry is completely out of reach and closed off to Louis, his beautiful, beautiful mind going into overdrive. 

He stands up, pulls his ankle away from Harry’s and, in a move that’s eerily reminiscent of what Harry did to comfort them both back in Doncaster, plops back down in his lap. Harry squeaks, but immediately breaks into laughter, and there, carved deep into his cheeks, are the dimples Louis had been looking for. 

He hugs Harry around the neck, tight, and feels Harry’s hands come up to stroke his back. 

“I feel like this should be the other way around,” Harry mumbles. “You shouldn’t be comforting me because I’m not understanding who you are.” 

Louis presses himself as close as possible. “There’s no right way to do anything, love,” he says, carding a finger through Harry’s soft, soft hair. “You’re making an effort, and I love you for it. That’s it.” 

“Okay,” says Harry, again, as the warmth of him seeps into Louis’s bones and lulls his heart into a lazy rhythm. “Okay. I love you too. I didn’t mean to cry within twenty minutes of you getting here.” 

Louis laughs, loud and happy, and breathes in. 

Harry is everything, he thinks. As scary as the thought is, he can’t quite bring himself to feel any fear. Not when he’s got his boy close to him like this. 

The sun reaches in through the window and paints the tips of Harry’s hair gold, and right now, right here, is the only place Louis wants to be.

*

**July 28th, 2010  
Piazza Navona, Rome, Italy**

“It’s very Bernini, isn’t it?” Harry says very seriously, eyebrows scrunching up and disappearing behind his sunglasses.

“Harry, honestly. I know fuck-all about sculpture.” 

The lady standing just next to them, looking up at the obelisk with adoration, dons a very scandalised impression and hisses at him. Louis has the decency too look chastised, but it gets a lot more difficult when he feels Harry dissolving into giggles next to him. 

“Me either,” he grins. “I just, you know. Read a tourist guide.” 

Louis shakes his head and squeezes Harry’s hand. 

They’ve been wandering the city for the better part of four hours, now. Louis’s ears have burned to a crisp, despite the generous amount of sunscreen Harry made him put on, and the t-shirt and shorts he’s wearing are doing nothing to make the outside temperature feel a little less like inferno.

Despite the conditions, Louis is enjoying being a tourist more than he’d ever thought possible. He’s already eaten his bodyweight in gelato, bought an entire suitcase’s worth of souvenirs, and despite the teasing, he devours every little bit of information Harry divulges. 

He knows that what they’re looking at is the Fountain of the Four Rivers. _Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi,_ Harry has been trying to teach him for over half an hour, but Louis’s pronunciation leaves a lot to be desired. 

“I really wish I could remember who all of them are,” Harry says, eyes flitting from one massive statue to another. “I know that one’s Ganges,” he points to the man Louis has dubbed the naked Santa, “but that’s it.” 

“That’s alright, darling,” Louis coos, so sweet he’s a little disgusted at himself. “You can Google them after we get back.” 

Harry grins, and Louis can tell his eyes are sparkling behind the sunglasses. It really is a gorgeous fountain, figurines carved out of rock with skill that leaves Louis a little breathless, but he can’t quite be arsed to pay attention to it when he’s got _Harry_ right next to him, bright and animated and definitely not made of stone. He’d make a beautiful sculpture, Louis thinks. Maybe he should commission that, once he’s found a way to become filthy rich. 

They walk away eventually, down the square and by one of the other fountains. It’s prime tourist season, the streets packed with people who, just like Louis, seem fascinated with every strange, charming corner of the city. Harry navigates the streets expertly, never lets go of Louis’s hand as they find their way amongst souvenir shops and expensive cafés. 

They emerge on the bank of the Tiber, and Harry leads them towards their next sight, the _Castel Sant’Angelo_. Louis has read about it on Wikipedia yesterday – he knows it’s a mausoleum, the tomb of Hadrian, who was a Roman emperor at some point in time, and is probably really, really old. 

They’re further away from the very heart of the city, now, and the crowds have thinned out a little. Louis gets to enjoy the walk, stopping every once in a while to admire the sculptures of angels lining the bridge they’re walking, while Harry chatters away, dripping with historical facts. 

“That’s the Vatican,” he says casually, motioning to somewhere beyond the mausoleum, to a cluster of sharp buildings Louis can barely make out against the pale blue sky. 

“Seriously?” Louis turns to him, scandalised. “The Pope’s _right over there_?”

“Um,” Harry says. “Yeah? Probably?” 

Louis gasps, only a little fake. “We should do something scandalous, then!” 

Harry leans in, quick, and plants a smacking kiss on Louis’s forehead. “He’s an old man, Louis. Leave him alone.” 

Louis pouts. Harry doesn’t give in, and pulls Louis forward instead, closer to the mausoleum. 

The building is massive; it makes Louis feel like an ant about to be squished. It’s breathtakingly detailed, small windows and meticulously built turrets, the Archangel Michael watching from the top, looking ready to smite them even as he’s putting his sword away. It makes Louis stop in his tracks, look up, just _watch_ as he imagines the building come to life in front of his eyes. 

There something he can’t quite explain about this city; something like light, like life itself, that pulses through its streets like veins. He’d felt it before, standing in front of the Colosseum holding Harry’s hand, an illusion that felt like he was traveling through centuries in the blink of an eye, like he was seeing the shadow of everything it used to be. 

“Hey, Harry?” he says, squeezing the hand that’s still resting in his, sweaty by now, but he refuses to let Harry go. 

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” says Louis. “For, you know. Bringing me here.” 

Harry beams, bright as the Italian sun, and pushes his sunglasses up into his hair. They’ve left a little indent on the root of his nose. “You like it, then?” 

“Hell yes,” Louis grins. “I love it. Best tour guide ever, you are.” 

Harry giggles, leans close to steal a peck on the lips. Louis moves closer to him on instinct. There’s a feeling like fireworks bursting right under his skin, one part _danger, public place, so many strangers oh god_ and two parts Harry, his soft mouth touching Louis’s like that’s all he ever wants to do, a feeling of love that has Louis’s heart so full it feels like it could burst. 

“Hey,” Louis says, “d’you know what we should do? We should take a picture in front of a famous monument in Rome. Since you like that so much.” 

“Heey,” Harry drags out, mock offended even as he’s pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

They take a picture then, one where Harry insists on standing behind Louis (“I’ve got longer arms!”) and putting one hand on his chest while he stretches out the other as far as he can in hopes of getting both the _Castel_ and the two of them into the frame. Louis, for his part, can only grin hopelessly and squint into the sun, finding Harry’s hand over his heart and tangling it with his own. 

At the last second, just as his finger moves over to the shutter button, Harry nudges Louis’s cheek with his nose. Louis tilts his face up, ready to tell him off or just grin hopelessly, really – and that’s when he hears the terrible camera noise. 

To the surprise of neither of them, the actual monument behind them is indistinguishable. The picture is of Harry hugging Louis from behind, and of Louis looking up at him like he hung every last star in the sky. 

Harry pretends to grumble. Louis sees him set the photo as his wallpaper before he stows his phone away.

*

There is a park around the mausoleum, called the _Parco Adriano_ , according to Harry’s one hundred percent authentic tourist map that he nicked from a hotel lobby. Louis is the one who decides they should take a break from walking, and sits them both down on the grass. He leans into Harry’s side, looks up at the strange trees – stone pines, he reminds himself – and lets himself just breathe, for a moment. The city air might be dirty, but there’s something exciting about it, like another adventure is just around the corner.

As it turns out, the adventure is hiding behind a large tree trunk.

 It’s Harry who hears the sniffling first. He perks up, looking all around them, but their surroundings seem empty.

“Hello?” Louis tries, and the sniffles stop. In their place, from behind a tree to their left, pokes out a tiny hand that waves at them.

“Do you speak English?” a voice asks, blurring the last syllable a little.

“We do,” Harry responds, and he already sounds concerned. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” the voice responds. “I’m really scared. Can you help me?” 

“Of course,” Louis says, scrambling to his knees. The hand disappears for a moment, and then, without a sound, a tiny girl in a bright dress is standing before them. Her knees are grass-stained, shoes dirty, and her bright blonde hair is sticking up in all directions. 

“Hello,” Louis says, cautious. “Are you lost?” 

She nods wordlessly, a big tear rolling down her cheek

“Oh no, don’t cry,” Harry rushes forward, standing up and dropping into a crouch right in front of her. “Did you lose your parents?” 

It’s not the right thing to say. The little girl’s tentative composure falls, and she bursts into sobs. She’s crying so hard she has to sit down, and Louis rushes to the two of them, unsure of what to do. He’s not sure what the general policy is on touching a strange child; he doesn’t exactly want to go to jail, especially not in Italy. 

“Hey, love, hey, it’s alright,” he tries, reaching out a hand in hopes of offering some kind of comfort. “We’ll help you find them, okay?” 

She wails, tears and snot running down her face, and Harry digs in his bag for a packet of Kleenex. He starts pulling faces as he pulls out a tissue and hands it to her, sticking his tongue out and crossing his eyes in a face he’d definitely picked up from Louis. 

To the surprise of exactly no one, Harry is incredibly endearing; so endearing it actually works. The little girl takes the tissue, wipes her face, and her sobs slowly dissipate into hiccups.

“I have a number in my shoe,” she says, and they both blink at her in confusion. “Papa’s phone number,” she rolls her eyes, having recovered impressively quickly. She works her right sandal off with quick fingers, and hands it to Harry. 

It’s only then that Louis catches on. It’s something his mum used to do, still does for the twins – put Louis’s name and address and their home phone number in permanent marker on the insole of every one of his pairs of shoes. 

He comes closer, still crouched, and looks over Harry’s shoulder. _Harper_ , the smudged writing says. _Please call Jason at this number_.

“Hi, Harper,” he smiles. She eyes him distrustfully, lingering on the way he’s leaning against Harry with one shoulder, and finally grins a little bit. Her teeth poke out, sharp and pearly white, and a little colour comes back into her cheeks. She reminds Louis of Daisy and Phoebe, and his heart pangs with how much he misses them, after being away for just three days. 

“Hi,” Harper says. “What’s your name?” 

“I’m Louis,” Louis says, plopping down in the grass the way she is, sprawling his legs. “This is Harry,” he tickles Harry’s side, gentle as he can, just to get him to laugh. Harry does, barely holding on to the mobile he’s already pulled out of his pocket. 

“Cool,” she says, with the air of someone very important. “Are you boyfriends?” 

Harry sputters; Louis throws his head back and laughs, feeling warm. He can’t help catching Harry’s eyes and smiling as he answers: “Yes, we are.” 

Harper nods. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” 

“Do you want one?”

“No,” she shrugs, keeping her very blue eyes on Louis. “Colin from kindergarten keeps asking me to hold his hand, but Daddy telled me that I don’t have to talk to him if he makes me un…” she looks up at the sky, thinking, “uncomfortable.” 

Louis smiles – he’s still smiling when Harry touches a soft hand to his shoulder. “You wanna call them?” he asks, waving his mobile. He’s got a thing about talking to strangers on the phone, Louis has found – something about how he can’t see who he’s talking to just makes him nervous. 

“Sure,” he agrees. The number’s already typed in; he presses the green button and puts it to his ear. 

It doesn’t even have time to ring. A harried-sounding man picks up within seconds. 

“Hello?” he sounds out of breath – panicked, maybe. Louis instantly feels bad for him. 

“Hi, uh, my name’s Louis Tomlinson. I…think we found your daughter?” 

“Oh my _God_ ,” the man – Jason, Louis remembers – breathes. “Oh my God, Derek, somebody—is she okay? Where are you?” 

“She seems alright,” Louis says, shooting Harper a thumbs-up. Harper ignores him – she’s discovered Harry’s hair, and is now on her knees in front of him, digging in his curls and pulling every which way while he smiles. “A little scared, but that’s all. We’re at the park, just behind the mausoleum – we’re the only people here, you’ll see us.” 

“Thank you so much,” he huffs into the phone, sounding like he’s already broken into a run. “Thank you,” and he hangs up. 

It doesn’t take long at all for Harper’s parents to come running up to them. In the meantime, Louis has scooted over to join her in wreaking havoc in Harry’s hair, trying to show her how to make a simple braid. She’s delighted, despite the fact that her little fingers get tangled constantly. 

From underneath his fringe, holding his head down so it’s in their reach, Harry is grinning in Louis’s direction. He’s bright, smiling, reminiscent of the Harry that came out when he was playing with Louis’s sisters, indulgent and lovely and full of enthusiasm for the simplest things. 

“Papa!” Harper screeches suddenly, abandoning them to break into a sprint, kicking up grass in her wake. 

Louis helps Harry untangle his hair, then turns around. Harper is happily chattering away already, settled into the arms of a man who Louis assumes is her _Papa_ – except then another man runs up to them, a children’s backpack slung over his shoulder, Harper screeches “Daddy!”, and latches on to him. 

And oh, Louis thinks. _Oh_.

He helps Harry stand up and brushes off his own trousers, and uses the proximity to nudge Harry gently on the shoulder. “Look,” is all he says, but he doesn’t need to – Harry’s eyes are already wide looking at the reunited family in front of them. He’s grinning, so wide his teeth show, poking into his bottom lip. 

“They’re so beautiful,” he says, which is—not exactly the adjective Louis would have used. “Look at them, isn’t it—aren’t they amazing?” 

Louis looks to Harper and her parents, then back at Harry. He knows, deep down, of course he knows what Harry means. And the thing is, it’s not difficult at all – to imagine Harry with a toddler who’s dressed in a flowy dress and shiny shoes like Harper is, running around some ridiculous field Harry’s dragged them to for a day trip, laughing with cheeks red from happiness. It’s not difficult to imagine himself by Harry’s side. 

“They are,” he says, wrapping an arm around Harry’s waist. It slots right in, like Louis is a puzzle piece made to fit every dip and curve of Harry’s body. 

Maybe he is. Louis has given up on questioning fate. 

Harry curls into Louis, warm. “I want that,” he says, and his voice shakes a little. “One day, you know? I want a family.” 

Somewhere deep in his subconscious, Louis feels like he knew this already. Harry’s words make him feel nothing but happy, the supernova twisting and expanding in his chest, and it’s as beautiful as it is terrifying. 

“How many kids?” he asks, pecking Harry’s shoulder. A certain kind of tension leaves Harry after Louis speaks, palpable in the way his chest deflates and his back slumps forward just a little, his bad posture coming through. 

“Don’t know yet,” Harry says. “Lots, though. At least four.” 

Louis feels like the sun has finally broken through his skin and spilled light inside him. He grins. “Got any names picked out?” 

“Not yet, no,” Harry says, contemplative, looking into the distance. “Kind of waiting to pick out with y—er, someone.” 

Louis giggles. Giggling is honestly the extent of his reaction. He is eighteen years old, has been in a long-distance relationship with Harry for four months, has known him for a little less than a year, but the fact that Harry sees them lasting – sees them building a life, a family together – is the most natural thing in the world. 

Louis has always wanted lots of babies, really. He doesn’t think he’s going to find anyone better than Harry to have them with, anyway.

He doesn’t get a chance to respond – Harper has, apparently, finished her reconciliation with her parents, and has now run back to them to hug one of their legs each. 

“Thanks for your help,” she says, all official-like, and Louis grins at her. 

“It was our pleasure,” Harry says. 

“Thank you, really,” another voice says, and they’re suddenly face to face with Harper’s parents. 

“I’m Jason,” the taller man says. “This is my husband, Derek. Thank you so much for calling us, we don’t know what we would have done if—“ he stops, presses his lips together until they’ve gone white. The other man – Derek – steps closer to him, squeezing the nape of his neck. 

“Harper’s a bit of a handful, she likes to disappear on us,” he says. He has the kind of smile that puts Louis instantly at ease. “We’re really very grateful you helped her.” 

“That’s alright,” Louis says. His arm is still wrapped around Harry’s waist, and he feels Harry’s wrap around his own in return. “I’ve got little sisters, I know how it is. They give us all grey hair.” 

David laughs, and they just—hit it off from there. Louis has never felt so comfortable speaking to _actual adults_ , and he’s inexplicably curious about their life. They really do make a cute family, if Louis says so himself, and he doesn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes light up every time Harper becomes the topic of conversation. 

They say goodbye at the bridge, with the sun already sitting low over the skyline. Harper gives them both sloppy cheek kisses, declaring them her friends, and Jason and Derek shake their hands. 

“Hold on to that one,” Jason winks as he leans close to Louis, inclining his head towards where Harry is giggling with Harper, pointing to one of the angels. 

“Oh, I will,” he says, and it’s the truth. 

They wave until the last notes of Harper’s shouts of goodbye fade into the din of the city. When they turn around with the sun in their faces, Louis feels a little more whole than he did that morning. 

“I love you,” Harry whispers to him, stealing a kiss as they look down into the Tiber. 

“Me too,” Louis responds, content. He closes his eyes, lets the evening breeze tangle in his hair, and thinks of bright, future summer days.

*

**December 26th, 2010  
Doncaster, England**

“Louis, seriously. Live a little, it’s your birthday.” 

Louis grumbles into his beer. “It already was my birthday. Don’t want to be older,” he says, blowing into the liquid until bubbles ripple the surface. 

“More like you don’t want to celebrate without loverboy here,” Stan rolls his eyes. 

He might be a horrible friend who forces Louis to put on party hats and drink alcohol when all he wants is to wallow in his misery, but he’s also absolutely right. 

It’s been five months since they’ve said goodbye at the airport, a mess of tears and snot and Harry’s cologne that clung to Louis’s clothes and followed him through security check and a plane journey all the way home. Louis hasn’t gone an hour without a text or a Skype call since then, has had Harry with him through everything that’s been going on at home, but he can’t help missing his touch; the way Harry makes everything feel alright when Louis is in his arms. He could really use some of that right now. 

“Piss off,” is what he says to Stan. Louis’s no-good wanker of a friend makes a face, but Zayn, who’s a little tipsy and leaning back on his chair, rubs Louis’s shoulder comfortingly. 

They’ve both had to deal with him moping, recently, and they have yet to complain. Louis really has the greatest mates – it’s just that he can’t quite bring himself to look past his own angst and acknowledge it. 

It’s been three months since dad left for good. Three months of waking up to the twins crying in the middle of the night and meeting his mum for another sleepless night in the kitchen. Three months of picking up extra work at the petrol station and slipping his mum bank notes and feeling like nothing’s ever going to be alright again. 

“I’m sorry, mate,” Stan sighs eventually, clinking his beer can against Louis’s in apology. “It’s just that it’s shite, you know? You shouldn’t be this far away from each other.” 

“I know,” Louis sighs, looking up at the ceiling. Does he ever. 

It’s been a month since Harry called to say he can’t make it to England for New Year’s. Gemma’s coming back from Sheffield, he’d said, and their mum insisted they all go skiing together. He’d apologised over and over, and Louis had told him it was fine.

It’s not.

It just sucks, is all. It sucks that Louis has absolutely no idea when he’ll be seeing Harry next. New Year’s was something they tentatively agreed on back in Rome, lying on the couch and watching an Italian TV series Louis didn’t understand a word of – now that it’s gone, there’s no guarantee. All of the future is a big, black pit of uncertainty. Louis’s mum has aged twenty years in the last months, and Louis doesn’t know how to fix it, how to help, if he even can. Harry will have applied to universities by now, but he hasn’t mentioned anything, and Louis is a little too scared to ask, and, well. He’s not really going anywhere himself, is he? 

“You know,” Zayn says, “we should get, like, proper hammered. Next weekend, or summat. Stan’s parents are going out of town.” 

“Hear hear,” Stan raises his beer in a toast. “Already bought tequila, just got to find some birds to invite.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the smile that tugs on the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, maybe,” he agrees. He’d promised to take care of the twins on Saturday, while mum’s at work, but he could probably still make it to a party. Maybe that’s exactly what he needs. “Thanks.” 

“Course, mate. We just want you to be happy,” Zayn says. Louis and Stan groan in unison, but Louis makes sure to knock his knee against Zayn’s in thanks. 

They leave before it’s even really dark out, just as Louis’s sisters come back from their gran’s. Louis sobers up as soon as Daisy jumps into his arms, shouting something about building a snowman, and spends the next two hours watching a DVD with them, looking out into the road. 

It’s been snowing, to everyone’s surprise, and the street is covered with shovelled snowbanks and remnants of snowball fights. Most people have still got their trees up, fairy lights blinking on the backdrop of a dark orange sky, and all of it is familiar enough to soothe Louis’s frazzled nerves, if only a fraction. 

It’s after he’s put the twins to bed and said goodnight to everyone that his phone rings, loud in the quiet house. _Harry_ , the screen says.

Louis immediately feels cold. Harry doesn’t usually call him on the phone. “Haz?” he picks up, balling his other hand into a nervous fist. 

“Hey, love,” Harry breathes. There’s a whistling on his end of the line, a little like wind. “Could you put the kettle on?” 

Louis freezes where he is, staring out of the kitchen window. A familiar, warm tingle wakes up in his fingertips. 

“What,” he says, and does an impressive job of keeping his voice calm. 

“It’s just really cold out here. I think my fingers are frozen.” 

Louis drops his phone. It makes _so much noise_ when it clatters down against the kitchen tile, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

He runs around the dining table, into the hall, and throws the front door open with enough force to tear it off its hinges, and. 

There he is.

 Harry is actually standing on the front stoop, curls full of snow that’s started falling, bundled up in a coat and a thick scarf. His nose and cheeks have gone pink from the cold; he’s the best thing Louis has ever seen. 

“Sorry I’m so late,” he rushes out immediately. “You know how Ryanair is, I should’ve called you before, I wanted—“

“Shut up,” Louis interrupts, already feeling like he can’t quite breathe. “Shut up.” 

Harry blinks at him and closes his mouth. Louis grabs him by the lapels of his coat and kisses him. 

Louis has promised himself that he wouldn’t be the cliché teen in a relationship, but all he can think as Harry’s cold face presses into his is that this feels like coming home. He wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, getting as close as he can, and just breathes him in. Louis’s throat is tight, but the tension in his muscles, the knots and twists of the past few months, evaporate just like that.

“Fifty-three,” Harry whispers when they pull apart, and Louis feels the incredulous tears make their way down his face. 

“Are you still counting?” he asks, laughing even as his eyes sting. 

“Of course,” Harry says, and wraps him up in his arms. 

It’s exactly what Louis has needed – the familiar shape of Harry’s body, the low rumble of his voice as he presses a _hi_ into Louis’s hair. Something in him breaks, and he realises he’s full-on crying, _sobbing_ like he’s wanted to perhaps since he lost sight of Harry at the airport. 

Harry holds him tighter. “Shh, hey,” he whispers, “it’s okay. You’re okay.” And for once, Louis feels it. 

Harry’s body shields him from the snow, the humid, biting cold outside as they stand in the doorway. He waits until Louis’s sobs have calmed into steady, shallow breaths before he pushes them inside, lifting a suitcase over the threshold. 

“Okay?” he asks then, wiping away Louis’s tears with his freezing hands. 

“Yeah,” Louis nods, sniffling and embarrassed, patting the wet patch he’s cried into Harry’s coat. “Yeah, I’m. Yeah. I missed you a lot.” 

“God, me too,” Harry breathes. He keeps touching Louis’s face even after it’s dry, a feather-light caress on his temples and his cheeks and his lips. “I missed you so much.” 

Louis lets him go, just for a second, hangs up his coat and helps him unwrap the scarf. He’s wearing short sleeves underneath. Of course he is. 

He wraps back around Harry shamelessly, inhaling his familiar scent. “How are you here?” 

“I flew,” says Harry, deadpan, but his eyes are serious when he looks at Louis. “I just. I don’t know. I couldn’t stand the thought of not being with you, not when I’ve been looking forward to it since the summer, you know? And then when you Skyped me the other day, you looked so tired and sad, and just—I cried on mum and told her I had to go and help you and be with you, so she let me.” 

Louis is damn near crying again. “Won’t Gemma mind?” 

“Nah. She hates me anyway.” 

Louis laughs, leaning up for another kiss. Harry’s lips are chapped from the cold but still warm, still just right against Louis’s. 

“Fifty-four,” he grins when he pulls away. He’s got one hand resting on Harry’s chest, just over his heart, and he’s _real_ , he’s here, he’s standing in the hall of Louis’s home with a halo of curls on his head and a soft look in his eyes. 

Louis takes his hand, refusing to give up the contact, and pulls him into the kitchen. He does put the kettle on, puttering around the cupboards to get mugs and milk and sugar all lined up on the table, and plops right in Harry’s lap as their tea steeps. Harry wraps his arms around Louis’s waist and sighs, content. 

“How’ve you been, then?” he asks into Louis’s neck, and all is right with the world.

*

Eventually, after Harry’s warmed up and filled Louis in on what he’s been up to, they unwrap from around each other and shuffle up the stairs into Louis’s room.

“Do I get to sleep on the bed this time?” Harry asks in a low voice, already laughing. 

Louis pinches the arm Harry’s got wrapped around his waist, closing the door behind them – the house is still blessedly silent, and he thanks his lucky stars they haven’t woken up his mum. 

“Course you do,” he says, falling face first onto said bed. He feels the springs in the mattress strain as Harry lies down next to him. 

“ _Oh_ , this is comfortable,” he says, stretching like a cat. His back pops once, twice, three times – Louis purses his lips and makes a mental note to give him a backrub. When he’s feeling less sleepy. 

“It is,” he sighs, burrowing deeper into his pillow. He’s suddenly exhausted, from the crying and the kissing and the warm tea. He turns his head towards Harry, about to suggest they turn in for the night, when he spots it, sitting where Harry’s shirtsleeve rides up. 

It looks like a shadow at first, or maybe a figment of Louis’s imagination, flickering in and out of sight as Harry moves his arm, but once he’s comfortable, it stretches over his biceps and stays. 

Louis reaches out a hand to touch it. “Haz,” he says, “what is this?” 

Harry tries to move his arm out of the way, but Louis is already there. He presses a finger against the dark ink, stretches the skin, and watches it bounce back into place. The letters are still there, bold and a little crooked, spelling out a _Hi_. 

“Shit,” Harry squeaks. “Um. You weren’t supposed to see that until I figured out how to tell you.” 

“What is it, Harry?” Louis repeats. Harry’s blush is bright even in the darkness. He drags his other arm through the sheets and over his face; he looks adorable, and Louis wants to kiss him stupid. 

“It’s, uh,” Harry stammers. “It’s a tattoo.” 

Rationally, Louis has already known this. Marker would have rubbed away, if not from Harry’s journey, then under Louis’s curious fingers. It’s a tattoo, alright. 

“A permanent one?” Louis asks, and the rest of the world fades into white noise. It’s just him and Harry, lying next to each other, only connected where Louis is tracing _his own handwriting_ inked into Harry’s skin. 

“Of course.” 

Louis swipes over the skin again, and again, and then one more time, just to make sure. The word doesn’t budge. It blinks up at him, stretched this way and that, going grotesquely wide and comically narrow as Louis pulls and pokes at it until Harry’s skin flushes red, and it stays. It will stay.

Forever.

Harry got a damn tattoo.

“This is the first thing I ever said to you,” Louis says. He sounds accusatory, for some ridiculous goddamned reason. 

“Uh,” Harry blinks down at him. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” 

“And it’s my handwriting. How the hell did you copy my handwriting?” 

“You sent me a card?” Harry says, and his voice gets progressively thinner. It occurs to Louis that he’s still frowning, still touching the tattoo roughly like he wants it to go away. “For my birthday. You wrote all over it, and it started with a _hi_ , so I had a friend trace it and blow it up, and, uh. Yeah.” 

He’s bitten his lips to a dark, dark red, and his eyes, usually laser-focused on Louis whenever they’re together, are darting all around the room. He looks so unsure, like—like he’s not sure if Louis is okay with it. 

Right. Because Lous is still frowning. Because he’s absolutely incapable of processing this.

Harry doesn’t say anything else, just lets Louis stare and trace circles in his skin, and the worried expression doesn’t leave his face. 

Harry is unbelievable, Louis thinks. The way he loves – so freely, so fully, with all his heart – it’s just—it’s special. It’s nothing short of a miracle, and Louis, thanks to a chance meeting, thanks to _luck_ , gets so much of it for himself. 

“Do you—“ Harry starts, then stops, swallows. Starts again: “Are you—“

“Harry,” Louis interrupts. “ _Harry_.” 

“That’s me,” he mumbles, like he can’t resist. If it were possible, Louis would actually harvest all the roses in the world and lay them at his feet, just because. 

He scrambles up, on his hands and knees, and crawls to Harry. His eyes are shiny from this up close, catching light like the snowflakes that have melted into his hair by now. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Louis says, and his voice breaks in the middle. He’d probably cry if he weren’t all out of tears; as it is, he wants to climb up on the roof and shout until every last person in the world has heard just how much he loves Harry Styles. “I love you so much,” he says, just to Harry. He’s the only one that matters anyway. 

“I love you too,” Harry beams, and finally lets go of his bottom lip. His smile is sudden, blinding, and mirrored by Louis’s own. “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you? Gems told me I was crazy.” 

“Little bit,” Louis grins, and crawls over until he’s straddling Harry’s legs. “But I love that, too.” 

Harry rests his hands on Louis’s hips, thumb rubbing comforting little circles into the fabric of his t-shirt. 

Louis leans forward until their foreheads are touching. Harry’s breath breaks against Louis’s cheek, warm and damp and intimate, somehow. When Harry kisses him, Louis welcomes him with lips parted and drinks him in. He lets his hands wander into Harry’s hair, untangling the curls and touching his quirky little ears. He trails his fingers down, over Harry’s neck, to wrap around his upper arm. He feels the ink burn like a brand; almost like it could seep out of Harry’s skin and into his own. 

“Fuck,” he breathes into Harry’s mouth, smiling so wide he has to break the kiss. “I can’t believe you got tattooed for me.” 

“Oops,” Harry says, grinning. Louis shuts him up with another kiss, and another, until the room is only filled with the soft noises of their lips touching. Louis gets a little adventurous, pressing his tongue to Harry’s, and Harry huffs in surprise. He responds in kind, a slow, raspy slide along Louis’s bottom lip, and presses closer. He holds on to Louis with a tight grip, but his fingers stay gentle. 

Louis feels warm all the way to his fingertips, burning where he’s touching Harry’s neck, squeezing his shoulder. He moves a little bit, trying to chase the warmth – that’s when Harry makes a noise and pulls away. 

His pupils are blown wider than Louis has ever seen them, a dark, dark green, and his hair is mussed up from Louis’s fingers. He looks startled, more than anything – nothing like the quiet contentment Louis is feeling. 

“Okay?” he asks, pressing an open palm to Harry’s chest in concern. 

“Yup,” Harry squeaks, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Just, uh. Got a little carried away.” 

Louis blinks. Then, like his body knows what he’s doing before his mind does, he lets his eyes travel downwards, towards the fairly obvious tent in Harry’s travel trackies. Oh God. 

“Oh God,” Louis says. “I’m—I’m sorry?” 

Harry facepalms. Louis can see the blush spreading down his neck even in the dark. 

“It’s okay,” he mumbles. He sounds like he’s on the verge of laughing, and Louis finds laughter bubbling up in his own throat, too, just a tinge hysterical. 

“I mean, this was bound to happen,” he tries to reason, moving off and lower down Harry’s legs, trying to hold himself together. “You’re eighteen, I can’t expect you to—“

“No, I know,” Harry interrupts, taking one hand off his face to find Louis’s and tangle their fingers together. “But this is embarrassing, bloody hell.” 

“It’s, like, natural, right?” Louis asks, still keeping his absurd laughter at bay. “Wait. Does this mean I’m hot?” 

Harry snorts. “I hate you,” he mumbles, but the way he squeezes Louis’s hand tells a different story. He sounds—overwhelmed. 

“Hey, you’re okay,” Louis reaches out, trying to comfort. “D’you want to, uh. D’you want to take care of it?” 

Harry pulls his knees to him, effectively dislodging Louis, and hides his face in them. He’s hiccupping, sounding like he’s halfway between crying and laughing. The flush has spread all the way down his chest and under the collar of his shirt. 

Louis sits next to him, biting his own lip. He lets him be, lets him get whatever it is out, and only reaches out to touch him once he’s calmed down. 

“I’m fine,” Harry mumbles. “Sorry, it’s just. I’m so embarrassed.” 

“That’s not like you.” 

Harry peels his face away from the fabric of his trackies, props his chin up on his knees, and looks at Louis. “I guess not,” he says. “But I always want to, like,” he waves a hand, “impress you.” 

“Love,” Louis smiles at him, “you flew from bloody Rome to show up on my doorstep and surprise me. _And_ ,” he presses a finger into Harry’s biceps, “you got a damn tattoo for me. It’s safe to say I’m already impressed.” 

“Alriight,” Harry drags out, and one corner of his mouth quirks up. He turns his big, round eyes to Louis. “Wait, shit. I didn’t make you uncomfortable, did I?” 

“Of course not,” Louis grins, deeming it safe to move closer to Harry again and plastering himself against his side. “I was already aware that you have one of those,” he nods to Harry’s crotch.

Harry finally laughs for real, a tad too loud for the middle of the night, but Louis is not about to stop him. “Arsehole,” he mumbles, wraps an arm around Louis’s waist and tangles them back in the sheets. 

“Love you too,” Louis presses against his cheek, settling in. There’s something about having Harry in his bed, sharing a pillow with him. Like Louis has let him inside every last piece of himself. 

He’s okay with that.

*

**December 31st, 2010  
Doncaster, England**

“This was a really bad idea,” Harry says at five minutes to midnight. 

“I know,” Louis laughs, pulling him closer. “Any minute now, though. Watch.” 

They’ve both got their heads thrown back, searching the sky for a spark, a flicker of colour, anything to tell them that the fireworks are coming. Somebody always fires off too early. 

“Why couldn’t we watch this from your garden?” Harry asks, even as he turns around in circles to make sure he doesn’t miss anything. The stars are out, and they seem to be falling off the sky and settling in his eyes one by one, lighting them up. Louis feels warm under Harry’s gaze. 

“It’s a tradition,” Louis says stubbornly. A field is definitely the best place to watch New Year’s fireworks. 

“There’s nobody else here,” Harry points out. “And I’m freezing.” 

“Come here, then,” Louis opens his arms. Harry makes one last circle, stops, and stumbles straight into Louis’s chest. His warmth immediately worms its way through the layers of fabric between them, all the way under Louis’s coat. Harry sticks his red, gloveless hands into Louis’s pockets. 

“Hi,” he says, quiet and just for Louis, as he turns his head to see the sky. His curls tickle Louis’s neck. 

“Hey,” Louis smiles. He buries his nose in Harry’s hair and inhales, soothing himself with the familiar scent. Harry’s leaving in three days, and Louis already doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to do. 

Just as he’s about to raise the question to Harry, to listen to his answer that will be positive and loving and will make Louis feel better, the first firework lights up the sky. Two minutes to midnight, Louis’s watch says. 

“Oh,” Harry exhales through his grin, wrapping his arms tighter around Louis’s waist. Louis holds him close, watches as the rocket bursts into a thousand sparks, a shower of brilliant reds and oranges and yellows. Another one follows immediately, and then another, further away. As the seconds tick down to the new year, colours light up the sky. Every explosion rumbles deep in Louis’s chest, like a premonition of what’s to come, the things that will shake his world over the next twelve months – and, as he looks down at a fascinated Harry, Louis thinks there will be plenty. 

“These are really pretty,” Harry assesses once the show’s been happening for a few minutes, more and more people running out into their gardens to fire off rockets and shout ridiculous shit that Louis can hear even from this far away. “Like magic. I usually fall asleep before midnight on New Year’s Eve.” 

Louis laughs, in sync with the boom of another firework. “Of course you do.” 

“We should make this a tradition,” Harry decides. “Starting next year.” 

“Will we be together the next New Year’s?” Louis blurts before he can bite his tongue. Some of the warmth filling up his chest dissipates, out through his skin and into the night air like it never existed. 

Harry is a little stiff when he moves closer, pressed against Louis’s chest. “I was hoping we will,” he confesses. “But it’s—it’s kind of up to you.” 

“Me?” 

Harry nods. He looks up at Louis with white teeth biting down on his bottom lip, hesitant. He blinks, and the shadows his lashes cast on his cheeks look like tiny explosions. “I’m moving to London next year, and I was kind of hoping…I was going to ask you to come with me.” 

Louis gapes. “You’re—you’re _what_?” 

“Moving to London? I mean, they could always reject me from uni, but I was thinking of coming anyway, to work or summat,” he shuffles his feet in the ankle-deep snow. Louis’s mind feels very, very empty. 

“You sent uni applications to London and you didn’t tell me?” Louis asks, bewildered. There’s something almost like anger bubbling up beneath his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, sincere. “I wanted to wait until I knew for sure, but I thought—did you think I’d stay in Italy?” 

“Yeah,” Louis says, and all the fight leaves him as suddenly as it came. “Yeah, you said. When you were here last time, you said you wouldn’t go back.”

Harry’s eyes are wide in relief. He puts both his hands on Louis’s chest, palms down. “To _Holmes Chapel_ ,” he says, looking into Louis’s eyes like he’s willing him to understand. “Of course I was coming back to England. To you.” 

Louis closes his eyes. He’s vaguely aware of fireworks booming in the distance, but the loudest sound in his ears is Harry’s laboured breathing, and the thump-thump-thump of his own heart. _To you_ , Harry’s voice says on a loop. _To you. To you to you to you._

“But this is actually what you want, right?” is the first thing that makes it through the daze. “You want to go to uni here? You’re not just doing it because—“

Harry cuts him off with a kiss. He wraps his arms around Louis’s neck and presses their cold lips together. Louis breathes some of that lost warmth back in. “No,” he whispers, once he’s pulled back a little. He’s still so close Louis can see the flecks of blue in his eyes. “I promise. I was thinking about it before I even met you, and you…gave me a push. But I swear,” he looks Louis in the eye, “I swear this is what I want. I want to go to come back to England, and I want to go to school in London, and I want to be there with you. If you want.” 

Louis shakes his head. He feels like stars, inside and out, like his supernova has finally exploded and left behind a dark, starry sky – clarity. Maybe this is it. This is what Louis has been waiting for before he even knew. Harry is the beginning, and the end is nowhere in sight. 

“I love you,” he says, brushing his fingers over Harry’s bottom lip. “Of course I _want_ , Harry, bloody hell.” 

Harry beams, like the sun and the moon and the stars coming out all at once. He actually jumps up, wraps his legs around Louis’s waist and his arms around his neck, and kisses Louis with everything he’s got. He’s shaking, Louis realises when he grips his thighs to steady him. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles, barely pulling away, dragging his own lips along Louis’s. “Thank you, I love you.” 

“Love you,” Louis repeats, a ghost of Harry’s words, and thinks he’ll never get tired of saying it.

They stay long after the last firework has exploded. Harry takes Louis’s hand and they wander down the field, through crisp, fresh snow and back into their own footprints. The cold of the night melts away slowly, leaving Louis brimming with warmth and happiness and love for his favourite, favourite boy. 

_You’ll be alright_ , Zayn had told him more than a year ago. As Louis runs after Harry across the field, throwing half-hearted snowballs at his back and laughing into the wind, he thinks of how wrong Zayn was. 

Louis is better than alright. He’s on top of the world.

***

“Why have you got an entire box labeled _kitchen_?” Zayn asks, carrying said box distrustfully up yet another flight of stairs. “Don’t you have, like, paper plates?”

“You’re the one moving into student accommodation,” Harry shouts from the very top, sounding out of breath. “This is a family home.” 

Louis grins like a fool, and only just manages to hide it into his garbage bag full of clothes. Zayn rolls his eyes at him anyway. 

When they finally get to the door, Louis has to stop and catch his breath. It’s difficult to manoeuvre around the boxes and bags and mountains of stuff that neither of them actually need. It’s all piled up around the entrance because they’ve been too lazy to carry it any further. Louis decides to stick it out, just this once – he throws his clothes down the hall, towards the bedroom door, and takes Harry’s precious _kitchen_ box from Zayn. Harry had been very cagey about it, going as far as writing FRAGILE all over it with a marker, and the least Louis can do is deliver it safely to the kitchen, where it won’t get accidentally kicked. 

Unsurprisingly, in the kitchen is also where he finds Harry. He’s setting his little Asda herb pots out on the windowsill, swapping the basil and what Louis thinks might be thyme, like he can’t decide where they’ll be getting the optimal amount of sunlight. 

Louis walks up behind him quietly, wrapping an arm around his waist and looking out the window. The view’s nothing glorious, straight into somebody else’s flat across the street, but it’s _theirs_ for the next nine months at least. Probably more, if Harry manages to charm the landlady.

“Hi,” he says, pecking Harry’s shoulder. 

“Oops,” Harry responds automatically, grinning down at Louis’s other forearm. The ink still looks unfamiliar, still carries the memory of sharp needles and fairly excruciating pain, but Louis gets more and more used to it every time he looks down. It’s startled settling into his skin, just like Louis has settled into this love.

“How are we doing?” Harry asks when Louis falls silent, staring at his _oops!_ tattoo. 

“All good,” Louis tells him. “These were the last two, we can start unpacking.” 

“Did you pay the movers?” 

Louis snorts. “They were uni students who happened to have a car.” Harry looks at him, stern. “Of course I paid them, babe. The only thing we owe is Zayn’s pizza.” 

“Damn right,” Zayn yells from the hall. “I’m leaving now, by the way! Don’t want to be here when you start with the sappy shit.” 

“Good!” Louis calls after him. He closes the door with a bang, and suddenly, they’re left all alone.

Louis looks around, cataloguing the endless amount of stuff they have to unpack and make room for. Right now, the flat is all bright, beautiful, open space, with the furniture they’ve been promised pushed against the wall and covered in plastic. It’s a blank canvas, just waiting for the two of them to take a paintbrush to it. 

“Can you believe this?” Harry wraps an arm around Louis’s chest, pulling him in, smiling into his hair like he knows exactly what Louis is thinking about. 

“Not really, no,” Louis says, looking up at Harry over his shoulder. The sunlight slants in through the window, paints his curls golden, and Louis is suddenly reminded of Rome. It’s over a year ago, now, but it feels like yesterday, the kiss of the Italian sun on Louis’s skin and Harry’s hand in his. 

“Yeah, me either,” Harry says. A strand of his hair falls out of his headscarf as he leans forward, tickling Louis’s ear. “But I’m happy it’s happening.” 

“God, me too,” says Louis. He thinks of his mum, holding on to Dan’s hand, crying and looking proud at the same time, telling him to call every day; of the twins drawing him goodbye pictures that he promised to have framed, of his big sisters hugging him silently with shiny eyes. He thinks of Doncaster, and summers spent kicking a football in the back garden. It’s a warmth, a feeling like knowing he’ll always have somewhere to come back to, but it’s not home anymore. 

Harry is.

“I love you,” Harry tells him, like Louis could’ve forgotten in the last hour.

“I love you,” Louis says, melting into Harry’s embrace. They watch the dust motes dance around the room, illuminated by the sun. From the safety of Harry’s arms, they almost look like stars. 

It’s September 6th, 2011, and Louis and Harry are starting a life. 

_~fin_

**Author's Note:**

> shameless plug time: i have a [tumblr](http://hattalove.tumblr.com/) and i will talk to you about anything. also, i love you. have a nice day.


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